


Swords of Destiny

by Kit_SummerIsle



Series: War Brides [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Great Swords, Kidnapping, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Miscarriage, Sticky, Violence, barbarian au, city Autobots, culture clash, mate-napping, non-war Cybertron, tribal Decepticons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadlock is a good Decepticon warrior. A good hunter, swordsmech and scout. When he sees this mech from afar... he wants to have him. In the best traditions of the tribe, by kidnapping him. But it doesn't go well. Or at all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding

**Author's Note:**

> [Troubled Sands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4044610/chapters/9099214) runs parallel with this fic and the events there will eventually collide with the happenings here - so it's useful to read both to get the full picture.

Deadlock crept up the hillock more cautiously than ever before in a scouting mission. The place looked decidedly strange when he first saw it from the other side and he wanted a closer look before going back to the tribe and report his findings to Galvatron. Hence his effort to circle the place and climb the little hill behind it to have a better look. Arriving to the top he choose an outcropping to disguise himself against and settled in to watch.

The city was small. So small it didn’t really deserve the name of city, consisting merely a few dozen small abodes that couldn’t have housed much more than a hundred mechs and some bigger, probably their public places. But it was defended well with high and strong walls, like a real city, the only gates he saw protected with high towers and hints of defensive machinery too. To take it would be more than a raid that’s for sure, the swordsmech mused while observing the defenses and their surprisingly few weaknesses.

Deadlock himself wasn’t all that keen on attacking the cities and destroying their outposts, but he was a Decepticon, accepted into the tribe and he wouldn’t betray that trust. For all he knew he might have been sparked as a city-bot, though in that case why was he found alone and starving in the desert, nomech could imagine. Even a nomad sparkling couldn’t have survived alone for long at such an age, but no nomad tribe would abandon its youths. His coloring was equally strange for a tribe and a city – almost pure white stood out in both as he had learned early. But regardless of his origins, Deadlock was a Decepticon now and would do his duty whether it was hunting, scouting – in which he excelled – or taking part in the raids. Whomever they would attack.

The mechs living there were even stranger than the usual city-bots. They all carried swords openly and Deadlock knew of no city that did that. Most cities had castes and only the warrior ones had weapons. Here, it appeared to be the norm though – Deadlock only saw one mech among dozens who didn’t have the one like all the others did – and such interesting swords they were too! The hilts rose over the mechs’ helms and shoulders, in the center a variously coloured jewel sparkled in the sun and what he could see suggested long, two-servoed greatswords, the rarest kind. Many of the mechs also carried smaller, twin swords in hip scabbards, similar to his own and all of them looked perfectly capable of handling their weapons.

Deadlock’s optics recognized the swift, flowing way the bots moved, their attractive, graceful limbs and movements, even as they did nothing else just walked from one place to another. His own limbs moved with a similar flowing motion, one that was common for sword-wielding mechs everywhere. Well, not everywhere, Deadlock amended his own thoughts, mechs like Megatron, with their powerful engines and huge frames relied more on strength than swiftness of movement or a refined technique. For a nanoklik a wild idea rose up in his processor, to find out if he was found near to this place… but no, the tribe roamed in the South for as long as he remembered, not on these parts of Cybertron.

Still, the more he observed these mechs, the more he didn’t want the tribe to run over this place, destroy and pillage it like they did with such small settlements, who couldn’t defend themselves. This one looked as though they might… but how to convince Galvatron of that fact? Even if the tribe could take out the settlement it would cost them dearly in mechs and energon. These city-bots could and would fight, it was clear to him. But Galvatron would only see their small number and say that they were weakling city-mechs…

Despite of his misgiving, Deadlock took his job seriously, counting and evaluating the settlement and its mechs the best he could. They appeared to care little to the desert surrounding them, there were no energon-crystal fields outside the walls and no regular tracks or paths leading out that would indicate hunting parties. Probably built the settlement around a good, reliable energon well, Deadlock pondered and the population hasn’t had the time to grow beyond its ability to nourish them. Though the walls didn’t look new, which meant some age to the small city.

All in all, it was more than a bit strange, not conforming to the usual stereotypes of cities that Deadlock learned so far. It didn’t grow, instead remained small, its mechs didn’t loose their ability to fight and it was turning inward, like no other city he knew. Having seen enough, Deadlock started to carefully withdraw from his position, when a white flash in the city caught his optics. He turned back and suddenly he understood at least some of the strangeness the city exuded.

The mostly white mech rose above the buildings, transformed and Deadlock ducked, hiding himself hurriedly. He wasn’t expecting a flier, not in a city. For some reason he didn’t know the cities were almost entirely composed of grounder mechs, seemingly abhorring any kind of fliers from fixed-wings to heliformers. All fliers whom he knew were either members of a tribe or living in the half-mythical Seeker city, Vos, that no Decepticon has seen. He was sure that the white flier didn’t see him or even seek any observer – he was obviously flying for fun, something no nomad did, so Deadlock watched him a bit unbelievingly. 

But he flew incredibly well too. Even to Deadlock, a born grounder, it was obvious that the white flier had serious skills and an agile frame to match. The maneuvers he did in the air were nothing sort of amazing – though obviously not fighting skills, not intended as being violent. It was… as if he flew for an audience, to display skills and abilities… artfully? But there was noone watching him in the city, Deadlock checked. The flier was… for want of a better word, dancing over the city purely for his own fun, white plating flashing delectably in the sunlight, strong engines pushing his slim frame through incredible maneuvers.

And though Deadlock has never wanted to fly, never ever displayed the slightest leaning towards aerial abilities – right now he was envying the white flier for his skills, his freedom in the air… and his so visible pleasure in what he was doing. The flier fascinated him. His movements amazed him. He wanted to see and feel that pleasure in reaction to his ministrations, in his berth, in his tent, under him, submitting… Deadlock nearly forgot his efforts to remain invisible from an aerial observer on a place quite unsuited for hiding thus as he continued to ogle the flier. When the mech landed, he was almost sorry for the display to end.

He should have retreated then. Later Deadlock was sure that that was the last klik he could have left and forgot the white flier. Because when the mech transformed and landed… then he was lost. Completely forgotten his scouting duties, Deadlock stared at the white face dumbstruck. Had he not been trained and practiced in staying hidden and unmoving, he would have gone down the hill and into the city… to be close to that white mech, touch those audial flares, pet those little pinions that fluttered so enticingly, caress those slim wings… shift between slender thights….

A nearly irresistible urge rose to snatch him up and take him back to the camp, carry him into his tent and claim the white frame as his. Deadlock nearly whimpered the urge was so strong, his processor snidely whispering him that this was what made sensible warriors loose their meta seeing a pretty face and what he had always chuckled about, teasing them, like he did with Megatron the last time. This time it was him who had fallen. Hard.

But he couldn’t take the mech now. Not in the broad light of the orn, not without preparing first and seeing where he lived. And not without planning for that hilt of a greatsword poking over white helm too in a stark reminder that he was no puny city-bot. Deadlock was actually happy for that. He was a swordsmech, a self-taught one for sure, but still the best in the tribe for that; it was all the more fitting to have another swordsmech for a mate. Deadlock was still more than a bit surprised that Megatron has taken a… scribe or something like that for a mate, he still wondered how they fitted together. Not all that well if the gossip was to be believed.

The flier down in the city disappeared into a building that Deadlock took careful note of, despite his disappointment of not seeing him any more and he started to withdraw again. He actually had to remind himself that he could come back again, kidnap the white flier in the best traditions of the tribe and claim him. But first he had to get back. In a short while he was on his way back to the tribe’s camp, to report his findings. 

“They are not many, but all are armed and looked like they can fight too.”

Deadlock finished his story and waited for Galvatron’s reaction. Soundwave, they all knew would not volunteer with advice before the chieftain spoke. No other mech present would say anything before him either.

“We’ll destroy them!” – Galvatron announced without much thinking.

Deadlock sighed. He should have expected nothing else really. Galvatron never held the cities in any respect and mentions of a few swords would not change his opinion.

“Recommending: caution.”

“You always say that, Soundwave. Why now?”

“Deadlock reports: armed population.”

“But no more than a hundred. We can easily win over a hundred city-bots even if they’re armed!”

“City: have fliers too.”

“So, some can flee like the cowards they’re.”

Deadlock found Soundwave’s glance pinned on him, an uneasy thing at best, like the mech silently demanded him to provide reasons for caution. He found that he didn’t mind repeating some of what he’d already reported but Galvatron apparently let them fly past his audial.

“Sir, they looked very adept with those swords.”

“Deadlock, you’re too fascinated by your swords. A cannon or two sweeps them away in a klik.”

“But they are warriors! They keep watch, they have walls, they have patrols, they… they expect an attack and are prepared for it!”

“Be prepared: takes no extra resources.”

Galvatron looked dissatisfied, but he appeared to take his words to spark. A little at least. 

“Fine, we will be careful. Soundwave, you make an attack plan. Deadlock, you go back and report on their patrols and such. Dreadnought, prepare the warriors. I want to see them all in this if we’re to be… careful. Yes, my… Megatron too.”

Deadlock waited until most warriors left the tent before approaching the chieftain. Soundwave turned a silent helm towards him, probably reading his intention, since he left after a short, curt nod. Deadlock was nervous. Normally, a warrior would not need to inform any mech of his intentions, but his position was not as strong as the born tribesmechs’… and Deadlock was tasked with scouting and intended to use the opportunity for his own goals. Best telling it to Galvatron before he could be punished for it.

“Galvatron, Sir… I saw a mech there… one I want to see in my tent.”

Galvatron’s answering look could only be described as feral. With a lewd smirk to go with. Deadlock stopped a shudder.

“Finally, ehh, Deadlock?” – the chieftain apparently didn’t care that he intended to deviate from his appointed task – “Bring him back and I’ll see you get some presents to appease the mech.”

Deadlock swallowed and could only stare. Galvatron has never been generous to him, never showed any interest towards the adopted Decepticon Deadlock. To have the mech suddenly not only approve his plans but actually encourage them and contribute… was decidedly strange. Pit, Galvatron hasn’t even approved his own creation’s choice of a mate publicly, even though Orion turned out to be more than what his background would predestine him for. 

But still, he was pragmatic enough not to question the chieftain’s goodwill towards him. Deadlock, while not the destitute, starving stray any more, was not one of the richer mechs in the tribe. His share from any spoils was small and most went to constructing his tent, since he had no family among the tribe to help him and Swindle was even more ruthless in their dealings that he was to any other mechs… So Deadlock thanked the generosity and left the tent with deep thoughts. Not even five steps away from it though, he faced Soundwave again.

“Galvatron: approves Deadlock.”

“Sure… I mean, I noticed it. I just don’t know why.”

“Galvatron and Megatron: estranged. Galvatron: dissatisfied. Deadlock: Megatron’s friend.”

Deadlock stared some more, while his processor made sense of the telepath’s scant, terse words and filled in the blanks. Then he blinked.

“He wants me to… what, soften Megs towards him?”

“Affirmative.”

Soundwave still stood there like he expected something more than Deadlock gaping at him incredulously.

“Deadlock: agrees?”

“S-sure… I mean… ummm… sure.”

He just had no idea how. Surely Soundwave would read that out of his processor? He was all for Galvatron and Megatron behave like Sire and Creation, sure he would help even if the prize of it wasn’t a chance to his own mate… but surely there were others more capable of it?

“Negative. Deadlock: Megatron listens to.” 

“Ohh…”

Soundwave nodded, the topic closed from his side and left Deadlock standing among the tents. It actually took some inner shaking up before he could start to move again, deep in thoughts with his own plans and what was, frankly hoisted on him at the most inconvenient time… if he managed to kidnap his mate, he would have his servos full with him, while Megatron was still more in his tent than out of it… so how in the Pit was he supposed to do this reconciliating slag?

A few joors later he was on that hillock again, overlooking the small city, still somewhat deep in his thoughts. Normally he wouldn’t allow himself such distracting thoughts while scouting, but right now he couldn’t help it. The city-dwellers wouldn’t notice him anyhow. But the closeness of that white mech gave his thoughts an additional twist, making him tremble slightly in anticipation. His plans in regards to the white mech were at least clearly worked out and he would put them in motion as soon as the dark cycle reached its deepest point, when both moons set. Until then he could fantasize what he would do with the white flier…


	2. Getting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever can go wrong is going wrong. No, it's not Murphy. It's Deadlock's life.

Deadlock startled badly when he heard the first shouts and weaponsfire. He was deep in pleasant thoughts involving a certain white mech, though he refrained from actual self-service while still technically on duty. But the noise… it came totally unexpected. Deadlock stared down at the city, his red optics trying to penetrate the darkness and make sense of the noises. Slowly, as his optics adapted more and more he saw shapes running towards the city walls, an occasional weapon’s shot lighting up the scene, making them seen in a frozen still like flashlights… and Deadlock started to curse. 

::Deadlock to Soundwave!:: - it was rude to comm the telepath in the middle of the dark cycle, but he didn’t care - ::The city is attacked by another tribe right now!::

The answer came pretty fast considering that Soundwave must have been in recharge. 

::Understood. Stay. Observe. Report when over.::

::Sir, may I… umm, attempt to find my… quarry?::

Soundwave was silent for a klik and Deadlock worriedly stared towards the growing commotion below. He would have to find the white mech! He couldn’t leave him to be deactivated or even worse… taken by another. Even just the idea caused him growl inwardly.

::I can… I can insinuate myself as one of the attackers.”

::Deadlock: may.::

::Thank you!::

Deadlock was out of his hiding place and down the side of the hill before he finished his comm. The total darkness helped and also his earlier efforts to paint his plating black temporarily for his plans. All too soon he was running and shouting among totally stranger mechs, hoping that none of them would find his lack of tribal markings suspicious in the blackness. The wall was crumbling fast from the heavier fire some of them was directing to it and Deadlock saw the city mechs collecting nearby to defend their homes – just as the tribe geared up to attack the breach.

He didn’t blame either party for it, but nor had he any wish to be part of that probably soon fierce battle at the wall-breach. Moving slowly outside, to the wings of the attacking group, Deadlock soon found himself alone in the darkness and under a section of the wall farther from the attack and so far silent and hopefully unguarded. Scaling it quietly and fast he dropped inside, squatting in the wall-corner to see if he’s been spotted or not. The inside of the compound was a bit lighter as the inhabitants had a few street lamps working in typical city-fashion.

Deadlock saw a mech rounding a corner in a run, but he didn’t stop, so he must have missed the silent intruder in their midst. Keeping to the darker corners and shadows, he silently sneaked around, trying to find the building he took note of and hoping that the white flier was still in it. He didn’t bet on it, not since he saw the swords on the mech’s back and hips. Galvatron can think what he wanted about city-bots, but Deadlock knew that those swords weren’t decoration and a warrior would not stay in berth while the city was attacked.

Expectably, the house was empty, the berth covers and a few objects thrown down showed that the inhabitants’ recharge was disturbed and they left the building in a hurry. Two berthrooms, one shared by two mechs, the other a single one, and judging from the berths all fliers. His quarry alone – and another pair. The sword stands in both rooms told him clearly that all of them were warriors, extremely dangerous, if he read the signs well for their size. Deadlock whistled low. One had to be enormous, maybe even bigger than Megatron – or his berth was way oversized.

He had no wish to meet them now or ever. Deadlock snuck out silently, keeping to the walls and shadows still. The noises of the battle raging by the defensive walls were if anything growing while he was in the building, while the rest of the city seemed empty. Now… the problem. How to find a flier in a battle while pitch black? In the darkness even his white plating wouldn’t show up. Deadlock got close enough to see the raging battle and noted that the city-bots were actually standing good while the tribe’s waves of attack slackened somewhat. It gave him some consolation that he judged them well. Galvatron would think twice to attack them now, after he told him about this.

The break in the wall was the place of the fiercest fighting and Deadlock could finally see a little as the city bots thought of throwing up a few reflectors to aid them in the battle against the better night vision of the tribe. They really did know how to handle their swords. The tribe - if he read the markings well, it was the Terrorcons from West – was loosing mechs all over the place and their efforts to get inside the walls were beaten back decisively. Overhead an occasional turbine-roar and weapons’ flash betrayed that the fliers fought their own battles, though he saw less there than he would have expected – many must have been already downed by the city-mechs. 

Deadlock desperately sought any flashes of white in the dark, chaotic scene while sneaking from corner to corner as close as he dared, sometimes even having to clash swords with somemech – funnily enough it was once a blue-opticked city-bot, the next one a roaring nomad from the tribe – but then, he rationalized he was the enemy of both right here. He won both encounters simply by surprising them by coming from the wrong direction and not shouting crazily like everymech else.

There it was! To Deadlock’s surprise he caught the coveted white flash not in the air, but on the ground, between two nomads each twice his size, wielding long spears that had far more reach than his swords. The white mech swirled and danced in the chaos, the nacelles on his shoulders roaring as they helped him with a jump or added strength to a blow… he cut down one of the nomads and Deadlock felt a totally irrational flash of pride at seeing this… considering that the mech was technically not yet his mate, he didn’t even know what plans Deadlock had for him…

But the other nomad used the situation to his advantage and thrust the spearhead straight into the chest-plates, intending it to the spark itself… if not for Deadlock putting in a burst of speed and beating away the spear with both his swords and all his fury. The thug dared to threaten his future mate! Deadlock barely saw anything in his fury as he batted away the spear like it was a twig and cut the mech’s warrior-grade armor open like it was a technodeer’s thin hide. He howled too, he was sure later from the hoarseness of his vocalizer, but right then he only saw an enemy going down and immediately he looked for the white mech he dearly hoped was not dead already. He saw the spear pierce the armor… how deep did it go before he could intercept it?

In the dark chaos he had to clash swords with one more nomad warrior before he could squat beside that white armor sprawled on the ground… now liberally splattered with energon in the flickering light of the reflectors. But he still had colour even if it was just white and Deadlock ex-vented his air which he didn’t know he held in. He patted the armor, but found nothing life-threatening, pinched shut an energon line that was leaking to make sure it stayed that way. He picked up the mech in his arms, cautious of the wound on his chest, suddenly wanting nothing else but escape from the battle that was not his, with the mech that now was. 

But Deadlock made it only a few steps, just out of the midst of the melee and between two buildings when he had to realize that his exit from the battle has not remained unobserved. The enormous mech landing in front of him wore a seriously pissed off expression, a menacingly lifted greatsword that was bigger than Deadlock himself and what freaked out the nomad warrior most, smoldering red optics. There were city mechs with red optics? Huhh.

“Who’re you? And where do you want to take Wing?”

He demanded in a voice matching the rest of his enormity and Deadlock cringed a little. With buildings to the sides, a raging battle at his back and the monster of a mech in front of him he felt his options greatly reduced. Good point though – he now knew the name of the white mech in his arms. 

“He’s injured!”

Deadlock hoped that the snarled answer would at least get him passage from the huge mech, but no such luck. The mech moved closer, looming over him and looked angrier by the klik. Deadlock moved faster than ever in his functioning trying to duck under the menacing sword and the arm holding it – and escape before the giant could turn. It nearly worked. 

But only nearly.

Deadlock groaned as he onlined and tried to roll over to relieve the throbbing pain in his helm. When it didn’t work he froze, processor quickly spinning up as he assessed his situation. It wasn’t good. The place was a small, dark room with no windows and one exit and his servos were tied up with some sort of a cable that also fastened them to the berth he was lying on. He was captured, probably by that enormous mech… and Deadlock was actually surprised to online at all.

In the long history of wars between nomad tribes and cities capture was probably the rarest outcome – neither side actually cared to take prisoners and go into the trouble of keeping them. And he didn’t fool himself – the huge mech was perfectly capable of disposing him, especially with a mech in his arms, hindering Deadlock’s movements. Though he was kinda satisfied that his assessment of these city-mechs was good and they successfully beat back the attacking tribe.

Deadlock got to work on the cable to free his servos – his captors might believe him restrained with it on, but his fangs were not just for decoration. But he was only halfway through unsnarling the cable when the door opened and two mechs entered. Deadlock tensed up. He was already nervous from being locked up and bound and the mechs didn’t look any sort of friendly. 

“Come on, freak…”

They pulled him to his pedes, each holding an arm and Deadlock felt the uncomfortable emptiness of his hip scabbards as he was roughly pushed through the door, down a corridor and into another room, this one both bigger and better lit. He recognized the large mech from the street but not the others, though they all wore those greatswords, even his guards. The big mech – a triplechanger, if Deadlock identified correctly his kibble – waved towards a single chair in the middle of the room.

“Sit.”

“I prefer to stand.”

The mech shrugged a massive blue shoulder. He looked threatening, but at the klik not angry.

“So. Who are you?”

“Deadlock. And you?”

“Behave, nomad!” – one of his guards gave him a shove for his insolent tone and the other snarled at him – “We ask the questions here!”

“Enough, you two.” – the large mech stopped the others – “I am Dai Atlas. Why were you trying to take Wing away?”

“I was actually rescuing him, but sorry if I saved his life!”

Deadlock goaded them deliberately with words and attitude, just to gauge their temperaments. Neither appeared very patient so far.

“Why? You have attacked our city, harmed my mechs. Why saving one… if it’s true at all? You could have been the one injuring him.”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie, nomad! You attacked us!”

Deadlock snarled right back at the guard, straining against the cable binding his servos.

“I do not lie, slagsucker!”

“Enough!” – Dai Atlas snapped again and waved the guards out, despite of their protests – “I can handle him if needed.”

When they left, he sighed annoyed and looked back at Deadlock.

“If you don’t lie, then tell me why you would save one of us. You must admit, it’s not… usual.”

“I don’t belong to this tribe that attacked your city.” 

Deadlock hoped that trying to change the subject would work so he wouldn’t have to answer the real question. He shifted a little in his bonds, but a glower from those optics stopped him.

“You don’t? Then why were you there?”

Let’s try some half-truths then… Deadlock looked at the large mech straight. There was no protocol of what he should do or say if captured… mainly because it wasn’t supposed to happen. And the temporary black paint was coming off after some orns, revealing his colours and markings.

“I’m a scout. I was sent by my tribe to observe your place and your defenses. The attack surprised me as well, trapping me within your walls. Check my markings against those at the breach you killed and you’ll see the difference.”

Dai Atlas looked into his optics, trying to discern his honesty The deep red gaze glanced down Deadlock’s tribal markings, the purple face on his chestplates that was visible after the camouflage paint has mostly rubbed off; and again back up, judging him heavily. In the end, he appeared to accept what was said, though Deadlock was uncertain at a little surprised flash from the big mech.

“I see. But you’re still an enemy – if you scouted my city, it had to be for your tribe to attack us.”

“If it’s any help, I tried to convince my chieftain not to attack.” – Deadlock shrugged nonchalantly – “But for the rest… true.”

“Why?”

“You’re no average city-mechs. You fight… and fight well. I advised avoiding this place.”

Deadlock refrained from asking why and how they were like this. He wouldn’t get an answer anyhow.

“Still, you haven’t answered my question. What did you intend to do with Wing?”

“I saw him fighting with two mechs and one of them injuring him. I…” – Deadlock hesitated, suddenly nervous, avoiding the other’s gaze – “I just couldn’t leave him there.”

Dai Atlas stared at him unbelievingly and Deadlock couldn’t blame the mech. It was unexplainable and he wouldn’t believe such a lame explanation either. Even though it was true.

“There is something you are not saying.” – he finally decided – “A plan or plot involving him. Until you tell me that you won’t be allowed to go.”

“Don’t try to play with me! You won’t let me go anyhow!”

The large mech watched him with serious but not angry optics. It was… queer. It wasn’t what Deadlock would expect from a city-mech. No anger, not fury, no contempt… what then? He couldn’t decipher the look.

“We haven’t decided what to do with you yet. As you say… it’s not like we take prisoners… but we don’t kill mechs either if we can avoid it. We’ll see what we should do with you.”

Deadlock was a bit scared at hearing that, but he tried not to show. Being locked up for any length of time was not something the nomads took well. Used to live in the endless expanse of the desert even the solid buildings of the cities that locked out the smells and noises of free air were enough to make them uncomfortable. 

“Ummm… is your mech… Wing… all right?”

He blurted out the question torturing him before Dai Atlas could wave his guards to take him back to his cell and had that disturbing gaze watch him again before he answered slowly.

“He will recover. I guess thanks to you… so we are somewhat in your debt.”

Deadlock nodded, carefully hiding just how relieved he was for the answer. It was strange how much he was attached already to a mech who didn’t know him, never even saw him really. He hoped he could see him again. On a second thought, maybe it would be better to be free first.


	3. Staying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had problems with the fics, problems with describing a sword-fight (they kept talking, blast them), problems with Deadlock fluctuating between lust and shame, problems with my net-connection... but the chapter is here, so all is well that ends well.
> 
>  
> 
> As for the other fics - they are set to registered users, so to see/read them login to AO3 is necessary.

During the next few orns, Deadlock was locked into that too small room, servos bound again securely to the berth. He was soon bored out of his processor and more than a bit frazzled by the small space. The guards came in to check on him far too often for him to unravel the cable or find a way to escape. That left taunting them, which worked for a while and amused Deadlock greatly – but after one of them, a deep green grounder who was one of the few not wearing a greatsword, has lost his control completely and hit him, they both disappeared. The new guards were far less fun and far less inclined to answer his verbal barbs.

But he did get restless soon and antsy at watching the empty room and the stark metallic walls. The cubes of energon delivered to him twice an orn were the only events breaking the boredom and while at first he was shocked by getting such a rarity to a mere prisoner, he sort of found out the explanation, remembering something that Megatron said about his mate – that the city-dwellers all drank filtered energon from wells, so it wasn’t a luxury for them, it was everyorn’s fuel. It tasted strange though, bland, clear of the particles suffusing living energon and giving it a taste. It took him some time to get used to it.

Then, after five eternally long and boring orns a mech came to his cell that wasn’t his guard. Deadlock was allowed to sit up for the occasion and his spark spun faster as he saw the white plating of his quarry in the doorway. The slender flier hesitated there for a klik, watching him questioningly, nacelle pinions rising slowly, but he entered then, closing the door after him and settling his armor down. He looked whole and healthy for which Deadlock felt secretly glad. He didn’t let it show though.

“Hello… Deadlock?”

His voice was like music to the nomad’s audials. It was clear like the air and rang like the wind-chimes in the mountains he heard once. It was completely unlike the rough, coarse sounds created by vocalizers of the nomads, scoured by winds, sand and rough life. But he liked it. It was… different. He nodded.

“And you’re… Wing.”

“Yes. I’m… I am told that you saved my life. I… came to thank you.”

Deadlock’s optics spiraled open in surprise. He didn’t expect thanks, he mostly expected further accusations and demands for his dastardly plans. But Wing didn’t look accusing or angry… he looked a bit confused but mellow and - it floored Deadlock and made him a little ashamed of his intentions – he looked genuinely grateful. The white face opened up even more with a smile at his bemusement and white wings rose a little on his back.

“I…I’m not sure why you’ve done it, but… I’m grateful that you did.”

“It’s… nothing.”

“I assure you that I don’t find it… _nothing_. I’m indebted to you now… which admittedly places us in a strange situation.”

“How so? You could just… let me go. You know. In exchange.”

Wing’s smile melted away and Deadlock felt the strange, mellow mood cool down. Of course. Indebted, yeah, in words only. But still probably executing him for spying on them. There has never been a nomad coming back from the cities, once they got captured.

“It was not my decision to make. I… I would do it. Dai Atlas – he’s our leader, he won’t let you go.”

Deadlock shrugged, clamping down his feelings for the white mech. He shouldn’t have expected any more. Warriors or not, these were still city-dwellers, enemies of his people.

“Well then. Make it fast at least.”

Golden optics spiraled open impossibly wide and Wing stepped back, almost physically recoiling from the idea.

“What? No, you mean…? No! We won’t kill you!”

Deadlock looked up surprised. What then? Were they toying with him?

“Then you’ll keep me as a prisoner? I’d rather you executed me.”

“We can’t let you go and lead your tribe here.”

“I’ll escape.” – this, he could promise with certainty. It wasn’t anything they shouldn’t expect.

“It is my hope… that I can convince you not to.”

Deadlock stared at the white mech like he was speaking another language. What he said… was incomprehensible. Why would he want to stay in a city?

“I’m not… I’m a nomad warrior. I don’t belong to a city.”

Wing looked at him with a thoughtful expression. Deadlock was just… nervous. What did they plan to do with him? They must know that he wouldn’t stay here meekly on his own. 

“I noticed your swords. You must have seen ours, mine.”

“Yeah. I saw them. So?”

“I will give you an… option. A wager if you will. If you can beat me in a swordfight, you may leave. I you don’t…”

Drift’s optics widened… it couldn’t be so easy… there had to be a catch. Even if the flier was a swordsmech, he could certainly win. And on the outside chance he couldn’t…

“I still won’t stay your prisoner!”

“Not a prisoner. My… guest. On your word not to try to escape.”

Deadlock snarled and bit his lipplate in an effort to remain calm. He couldn’t give his word on that. Why would they want to keep him in the city? But he pushed back that worry into the back of his processor. He just has to defeat the flier. How hard could that be?

“We can certainly fight.”

The answering smile that lit up the white flier’s faceplates unnerved Deadlock more than he dared to admit.

He was led to a large indoor space through an underground tunnel that looked far too elaborate and had far too many other tunnels joining it for his comfort. Deadlock started to have a suspicion that most of the city was actually built underground, making it a much bigger place with far more inhabitants than he thought at first. That the chamber he was in had no windows just reinforced the suspicion and he realized that escape would be even harder. He didn’t do well underground. He couldn’t find his way, he couldn’t stand the feeling of confinement and the doors had keypads instead of real locks he could break or pick. 

The white mech, Wing unbound his servos and he got back his swords, both undamaged and without a scratch and showed him to a marked sparring ring. Deadlock started a few warming up routines of his own but his attention was mainly on his soon-to-be opponent, trying to get a feel of his skill and style. The white mech focused inwards, not paying any attention to him as he went through some movements that looked ritualized. He was fast, that Deadlock could see at once. The style was unfamiliar, but obviously some kind of a martial art, looking ritualistic and freeform at once. 

Another mech entered and drew his attention, but he sat calmly by the wall, watching them intently. Of course they wouldn’t leave him alone with one of their mechs, armed and able to move freely. The mech was there as a guard. Deadlock forced his presence out of his processor. He could fight with an audience, even if it was a stranger one. Both of them finished with the warmup in a few breems, and Wing gave a signal to start the real exchange. For a few kliks, they circled each other, attempting to jolt the other by surprise feints and retreating as they did nothing to disturb their respective attention. They were both too good for such an easy tactic. 

“Where did you learn sword fighting?”

Wing asked casually as they continued to circle each other. In the background, a few more mechs arrived to watch them.

“In the tribe. Taught myself.”

Deadlock wasn’t going to let the conversation disturb him. Or the growing number of mechs in the audience.

“You appear a bit strange for a nomad.”

He didn’t deign that with an answer, only an irritated snarl. 

“I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way.”

“I am a nomad.”

And that was it, at least for Deadlock. These mechs couldn’t know his past… not when he didn’t know it either.

Their swords met now a few times, easy attacks and deflections, still judging the other, still trying to get a feel for another style. Deadlock’s swings were more forceful, more straightforward, while Wing was… elegance in motion, each step looking like a refined dance, each swing of a sword a whisper in the air… and he met Deadlock’s attacks blow for blow, his more refined motions putting the nomad’s more forceful ones off easily.

“What’s the difference? I mean the real one? Are you not a mech like us?”

What sort of a question was this? Was the white flier trying to confuse him to win the fight this way? Deadlock snarled again as a heavy blow was deflected by a deft flick of a wrist, its motion almost insulting in its simplicity.

“I’m a nomad! I live out in the desert while you hide underground!”

Wing smiled and with a lightning-quick strike nicked a tiny piece of his spaulder off and danced away, fast like the desert wind. He hissed at the prick of pain.

“That’s not a real difference, I think. I could go out and live there if I so wished.”

Deadlock snarled. He left himself open. It had to be. He would have to concentrate and not let that smile distract him.

“You’d be dead in a decaorn. THAT’s the difference.”

The motion of the swords sped up, their thin metal cut the heavy, unmoving air inside the building with a faint susurration. They clanged and rang on each other more and more often as the tempo fastened.

“I can’t see why.”

“Exactly” – Deadlock retorted, his swing heavy and almost getting close to his target before a light flick diverted it again – “You don’t know what would kill you out there. You wouldn’t even notice it coming.”

He nearly got another cut when the white flier smiled again, open and honestly. It seriously annoyed Deadlock. Talk, he could put up with. But his own uncontrolled reaction to the mech’s smile was dangerous and frightening. He tried to compensate with more movement and putting more strength into his blows. The slighter frame of the flier has to be a disadvantage! But so far, Wing has danced out of his attacks with an annoying ease… and continued to smile.

“True. But it can be learned, I suppose.”

“Of course.”

“Can you learn to live here then?”

“In a city? Underground?” – Deadlock shuddered in disgust – “I wouldn’t want to. It’s a prison.”

“Do I look like a prisoner to you?”

Deadlock stepped back from the white flier, lowering his swords, fed up with the whole talking.

“Look, are we fighting or talking? And can you say something or just ask stupid questions and answer with even more of the same?”

Wing lowered his swords too and laughed loud and openly, pinions rising and twitching with his mirth.

“All right, we should continue.” – his smirk was pulling Deadlock’s spark in a strange way – “before our audience gets bored, I suppose.”

Deadlock gnashed his denta together at the smug snickers and outright laughs from the sidelines. He stepped back to the ring and attacked again, feinting and weaving his swords, giving his best into the fight. Wing, still with a tiny smile on his lipplates, also answered and Deadlock suddenly felt that till now, the other mech was going easy on him. Slag. The tempo fastened and Wing’s attacks grew in complexity, easily overwhelming him now. Double slag! Deadlock tried to follow those swords, but he was outclassed now. Seriously.

Another cut and the tire on his left leg hissed as it was cut. Deadlock snarled to cover up the jag of pain. His own swords caught air only – Wing was never where he expected the jet to be, never where he could reach even close to white plating. His balance was thrown, and yet another little, but extremely painful cut to his audial finial made him growl. The blasted flier was playing with him. His anger rose and made him forget who he was fighting with. 

Deadlock roared and swung into a complex attack that was his last chance. Spurred to heights he rarely attained, his left sword tied Wing’s right and he got close enough for a decisive strike. With his attention completely zoomed on his target, Deadlock hasn’t noticed the other sword sweeping in and divesting him of his right blade, sing through air as it flashed up, cutting through his middle and the chest-plate. Instinctive movement brought his left arm in as agony flashed through his sensor-net, to stem the energon dripping down on his frame. The limp sword in his servo nicked a white wrist before Wing could dance away, but it did nothing for his chances any more.

He groaned and tried to lift his still obeying arm for a defensive stance – but no other attack came and he slowly sank onto one knee. The energon loss warnings flashed through Deadlock’s HUD, mixed with the pain signals and he knew the cut had to be even deeper than he thought. He lifted his helm to look at the flier, the shame of loosing burning through his processor, melting his attraction to the jet to slag. From the klik he saw Wing taking the fight seriously, he knew instinctly that he had no chance. The jet was trained to handle a sword on a level he could only hope to attain one orn. Before loosing consciousness, a worrying thought flashed through him: were they all so trained? Could he hope to beat a whole city of swordsmasters?

He knew the answer too.

Deadlock onlined a few joors later, the wound repaired along with some other, older damage he forgot about. The room was yet another one he hasn’t seen, a healer’s domain in soft whites and plenty of unknown tools on shelves and in cabinets. The healer stood with his back to him, the ubiquitous greatsword gleaming on his back too, talking to… Wing. Burning shame flooded his systems at the sight of the white jet, completely overwhelming the attraction for him. He lost to a… a city-mech!

“He’s online. Good. Wing, you can take him.”

For a nanoklik, Deadlock wondered if the morose attitude was universal to healers everywhere, before the words caught on. Take him? Where?

“I’m glad to see you online again.”

He was still blasted smiling. Why was he always smiling???

“Why would you be glad?”

Deadlock cursed himself as he realized that he didn’t even think of checking if was still restrained or not. Because he wasn’t. Not that it would help him much against such swordsmechs and him lacking weapons again… but he still rolled off the berth and stood there warily, watching them. Both were between him and the only door, cutting his escape off. He only considered attacking them anyways for a nanoklik.

“I’ve injured you.”

“So?”

“And you’re my charge now. I know you didn’t give me your word… but I hope you will stay with us.”

The healer also turned and snorted indelicately.

“I did more than hope.” – he pointed to Deadlock, who stepped back instinctly – “You have a tracker and an alarm that tells us if you go near the wall. Make sure you don’t.”

“So I’m still a prisoner.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

The latter was Wing, who stared at the healer almost angrily, who, in turn shrugged and waved at them out. Deadlock snorted. He could trust the honest words more than any attempt to cover up the truth…

“Come… Deadlock. You’ll stay with me and I can show you the city.”

“Why care? I’m just a prisoner. Why do you want to… play nice?”

“I’m still hoping to convince you.”

“Of what?”

“To stay here.”

Deadlock stopped in the middle of a corridor he hardly even noticed, turning to face the white jet.

“Why? I mean, seriously. Why do you need a nomad like me?”

Wing also stopped, looking a bit troubled under his everpresent cheer that was a bit subdued now.

“Well… you can’t leave. Dai Atlas was… adamant on that point. But to keep you in that cell is just… wrong. We do understand that nomads don’t take that well. It was, I guess a compromise.”

“I will still try to escape.” – Deadlock didn’t show how grateful he was for the relative freedom, because he still smarted from the defeat and the entirely too false notion of being and unwilling ‘guest’ – “I don’t belong here.”

“You could.”

“I don’t want to! It’s not my place, not my home!”

“But is it so bad?”

Deadlock nodded emphatically, even as he followed Wing through the corridors, out onto a street and into a small house. At least it was above ground, though a different one from what he had observed before. 

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“What is so bad? This will be your room.”

Wing showed him a small room, opening from a larger open space. Deadlock shuddered as he looked in. Small, windowless, containing a berth only and hardly more than the previous cell. He was sure the door locked too.

“This? This is a cell. I can’t see why is would be any better than the previous prison.”

The white jet’s wings drooped a bit and his cheerful countenance faltered again.

“I’m sorry…? But at least you don’t have to stay in there all orn. Only the dark cycle.”

“And what will I do the light cycle?”

“I thought… I can spar with you? Show the city? Anything you like? You can tell me about the nomad life too.”

Deadlock looked skeptical. He was not interested in the city and sparring, though it would be good, was still a sore point. 

“I’d rather… showed you nomad life.” – he mumbled, then regretted it when Wing looked at him with wide, innocent optics.

“You never told me why you saved my life.”

Deadlock would rather not answer to that particular question… but from up close, now that the defeat’s shame abated a bit… he had even less resistance to those golden optics and slowly rising pinions than before. 

“I just… couldn’t leave you there, that’s all.”

“I saw you attack that other nomad. Before… before I fell.”

Deadlock squirmed under the questioning gaze, scowling to cover up his hesitation. He was surprised to see the white jet step closer, nearly touching, wings fluttering slightly. He debated the urge to put his arms around him, to draw him even closer… but Wing shifted back a bit.

“If it helps any… I am glad that Dai Atlas charged me with your… care. I find you very interesting.”

“Yeah. As a barbarian, whom you try to tame, right?”

“No. No! As… you.”

The young jet looked adorable confused and embarrassed. Deadlock wanted to get a servo on those wings… now. But his lust was cooled when he remembered the ease the flier defeated him with. It was… embarrassing. Good thing it appeared to be so for both of them.

“Umm… there’s the wash-rack, you may want to use it before we refuel…?”

It was a change of topics if Deadlock ever heard one. Wait, what?

“Wash-what?”

Wing stared at him like he said a bad joke. Those incredible golden optics flickered on Deadlock’s frame, from his half-rubbed off black paint to the pedes caked with desert dust… and Deadlock’s ire started to rise. He hated to be stared at like that!

“What!?”

“You don’t…?” – wide golden optics snapped to his red ones – “No washracks? Umm.. of course, no plumbing in the desert, stupid, stupid…”

“No. No walls, no _plumbing_ , no washrack.” – he wasn’t sure what plumbing was, but never mind. Deadlock put as much sarcasm into his voice as he could – “Barbarians, remember?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. Look, it’s just… a more effective way of getting dirt off.”

He was showed how to shower and despite his darkest glowers and protesting snarls, Wing insisted on taking a brush to his plating. It tickled, but whenever he twitched, he heard Wing’s light, muffled snickers and he growled… but the blasted jet insisted helping him all through the… bath. In any other circumstances, Deadlock would have loved to feel those servos on his plating, those digits picking his seams clean – but this activity was so… demeaning, he couldn’t even enjoy it. In the end he stood there shivering, liquid dripping from white-again armor, tickling his protoform, cold and miserable. He wanted the desert sun and heat, but he only got the windowless room and its cold draft. The cloths Wing gave him to dry with felt entirely inadequate to feel warm ever again… though the jet’s admiring glances were sort of… nice.

But all through it he couldn’t forget how easily the flier defeated him. It gnawed in his processor, it twisted his cables and felt like a mar on his reputation. How could he go back to the tribe after this and hope to take Wing with him? Beaten by a city-bot, taken prisoner the way he intended it so… it was a shame he might never be able to delete from his name.


	4. Planning

He hated to be taken for… walks. It was like every mech around stared at him, every stare was condescending, every time they whispered behind his back and he was snarling and straining to hear what they said… and every time Wing insisted that it wasn’t like that. As if he could believe him. But staying in the house, even in the main room with the window was even worse. What he could see from it was just the wall of another building, another one beyond and the city walls to top it off. All just reinforced how much a prisoner he was. Outside, at least he could see the sky and feel the hot desert winds; and the city had a small park where crystals and benches stood in a mock effort to imitate real nature… and freedom. 

The lower city was even worse. An endless maze of corridors ran every which way, connecting caves of various sizes, some natural, some obviously hollowed out by tools and he was hopelessly lost in them. His natural, inborn sense of direction didn’t seem to work down there and though he had learned a few useful glyphs from Orion, he was woefully far from being able to read the markings on the doors and corridors. And the city-dwellers appeared to actually prefer the undertown to the surface. 

“Well, it is far less dusty and hot down here.” – Wing tried to explain – “To keep the streets clean and the dust out of everything is a futile effort up there.”

“In exchange you’re prisoners down here too.”

“Do you really consider it so?”

“Yes.” – emphatically so.

“But we’re safer here too. In case of an attack the Knights defend the walls, but the civilians can stay in safety.”

Deadlock frowned. Something was… fundamentally wrong with this, but he couldn’t quite define what. 

“Come, I wanted to show you something.”

They arrived to a medium sized cave where a lot of mechs – far too many for Deadlock’s comfort – were sitting by tables, talking and… eating? Wing led him to one small, spindly table and pushed him down onto a chair, smiling as Deadlock protested grumbling that he could sit on his own. He left then, though not far, just to a counter of sorts where he chatted with another mech for a few kliks – and returned with a small tray that he deposited on the table.

“I heard nomads like eating more than drinking energon.”

“It’s not about liking. We have to hunt and eat the game.”

“Yes. Well… these are considered delicacies here, solid treats made from energon. Try them.”

Deadlock stared at the small, mostly bite-sized solids on the tray. They looked… far more fanciful than energon should be. They were obviously shaped, covered, layered… and done up in techniques he had no words for, each representing an effort far greater than everyday food should be. It reminded him, though only a tiny bit, of a great feast several vorns ago when there were some traded foods that looked like these… though those were still recognizable as mechanimal parts. These… these were more like carved crystals or metallic sculptures.

“Try this one… here.”

Wing nudged the tray closer to him and pointed to the small, red solids, smiling widely and encouragingly. Deadlock was fairly sure that in a few orns he would try to delete that infuriating smile from that delectable white face. It felt condescending, no matter how Wing denied it. But for now… he picked up one square piece that looked the simplest and tried to chew on it like he would on a mechanimal bite. Only it was soft. Way too soft, and sticky, adhering itself to his fangs in a faintly annoying way, melting softly… the taste only registered after a few kliks, but then his optics widened. If the city-dwellers’ energon was bland, then these treats were way too strong-tasting. Sweet, but too strongly sweet. Cloying, rich, far too sweet.

“What?!?”

Wing was laughing and trying not to, a white servo flying up to cover his mouthplates. Deadlock’s optics blazed in embarrassed anger, a snarl pulling his lipplates, still gamely fighting with the sticky mess slowly melting in his oral cavity, stuck to his fangs.

“I’m sorry, but… you made such funny faces!”

That made his servos tighten into a fist, impotent rage slowly bubbling in him. He heard – or imagined – snickers from nearby tables, from the other mechs who probably enjoyed the entertainment Wing has provided them with. The barbarian in the city.

“Look, you don’t have to… gnaw at these. Just… suck lightly, let them melt slowly on your glossa until you can enjoy the taste.”

He wasn’t teasing him now, was he? Deadlock glowered at the still barely hidden smile on Wing’s open, honest face. Maybe… maybe not.

“Right. Suck.”

He tried another, a smaller one, outrageously bright gold one with pink veins. It bobbed and jiggled in his claws and he nearly dropped it back to the plate in surprise. Wing didn’t even try to stifle his snickers this time.

“The jelly ones are behaving… strangely. Probably your claws. They are easier to hold with blunt digits.”

Deadlock plopped the jiggling slag… treat into his mouth, as instructed onto his glossa. It tickled as it moved there still and he nearly spat it back when it started to melt.

“Ommff…”

If the previous one was too sweet, this one was definitely far too sour and sharp. Like… like sticking his glossa into an acid puddle after a rain. These mechs actually enjoyed such things??? He swallowed it in whole and made a strong grimace ending in a shudder. The blasted jet was laughing again. Deadlock had had enough from city food. He’d stick to energon rather, be it as bland as it wanted to. Lifting his claws he licked them clean of the sweet and sour mess they were now covered with.

“No, no, please… use this!”

Wing thrust a small cloth towards him that smelled of solvent and instead of laughing, he looked… embarrassed? Deadlock took it automatically before he could think of what to do with it.

“To clean your digits…”

“I’ve already cleaned them.”

Wing sighed, his good mood disappearing. The tray was gone in his subspace and he stood, gesturing Deadlock to stand too.

“Maybe we should try the rest in my rooms…”

“I don’t want any more.”

“You’d find some to your taste, I’m sure… but it’s not necessary.”

Sparring with Wing wasn’t a whole lot better than tasting stupid things or staring at crystal sculptures, like Wing insisted sometimes – but at least in the sparring cave he felt a bit like himself and not a tamed cyberhound at the heel of his master. Even if he was still ages away from being a partner for the white jet – but at least knowledge and training was what Wing gave freely. For this he even put up with the occasional audience there, the snide comments and the disdaining scowls. Wing insisted that he only imagined those, but the young jet’s naivety was astonishing for Deadlock. He saw what he saw and he wasn’t any sort of accepted or welcomed by the rest of the mechs. No, they only suffered his presence there because their leader declared so and he provided an entertainment for them. 

It happened in the sparring chamber too, that he got into a real fight with another knight. Their bout with Wing has just ended when a black mech, a flier as well, came close, his optics subtly dismissing Deadlock like he wasn’t even there… and he blatantly fondled Wing’s aft. Deadlock might even held himself back for he was used to the knights’ disdain towards him, if not for the touch and Wing’s cheerful laugh in answer – that flamed his jealousy so high, he couldn’t restrain himself any more. Didn’t even want to. Hissing and snarling, he went at the knight with claws – the practice swords were useless in a real fight – and surprised both of them so much he could inflict a few deep scratches on that too-shiny black plating. It was well worth the orn locked into a cell and Dai Atlas’s lecture afterwards that he let fly past his audials.

He saw Dai Atlas only once more, the huge mech sparring in there when he arrived with Wing and he got to watch his skills with a sword. It disturbed him deeply… he still wasn’t any sort of a match for Wing, but now he saw that the jet wasn’t even the best of the knights. It made him morose and moody for orns. Living in the city has caught up with him too, the ubiquitous walls that confined his gaze everywhere, the confusing tunnels that he got lost once – well, not all that innocently as he tried to find a way out and got caught by knights when he got too close to the outer wall – and the so obvious disdain every mech showed towards him was just too much.

Also, though he hesitated to admit it even to himself, living with Wing was a torture in itself. He still desired the jet, too much at times, but the knight was oblivious to – or ignoring – his feelings. He rather thought the first. Ever since that little sentence when they first met, Wing showed no interest in him beyond the whole ‘civilizing the nomad’ thing being his duty. He did disappear sometimes, entrusting Deadlock to another knight and came back so sated and satisfied that it made Deadlock growl with impotent jealousy. But he never said anything and the pressure slowly grew in the nomad’s spark. He wanted Wing, this, he was sure. But not like this… not as the jet’s prisoner. 

-o-o-o-

Megatron wasn’t made for scouting. That was for smaller mechs, like Deadlock. But since Galvatron forbade the tribe to go after Deadlock or the city he disappeared at, Megatron felt it was his duty to at least go and see what happened to the swordsmech. That, and Orion insisted on helping him too. It wasn’t like he never went hunting alone and anyhow, who was Galvatron to tell him where he could go and where couldn’t? Orion even wanted to come with him, but with the tribe on the move he was needed back there more and Megatron didn’t want to risk his mate. Finding Deadlock might take real fighting and Orion still handled the killing mechs part of it very badly.

So there he was, probably at the same spot Deadlock watched the small city from a few decaorns ago, patiently observing it for orns now. Deadlock was right, there was something queer with this city and its mechs, something not to be underestimated. The wall was freshly repaired in one spot, probably where it was attacked the last time, the one Deadlock told Soundwave about. There were no empty frames around, the dust-storms and predators made sure of that, so he couldn’t determine Deadlock’s fate by that either. 

And Megatron was hesitant to try and fly over the city. It might not reveal anything, but if they had fliers, it might be dangerous – and it would give away his presence anyhow. So he continued to gnaw at a piece of a dense boar-hide and watched. He would stay for a decaorn. If nothing happened during that time, nothing he could discover – he would leave. He didn’t owe more to Deadlock, certainly not a suicide entry into an unknown, and very strange city. He would also not leave Orion alone for any longer.

-o-o-o

Deadlock stared at the crystal Wing brought to his home last orn, enthusing about its marvelous colours and slender, twinkling boughs. The jet often brought potted crystals home and many of the flat shelves were full of them in various conditions… some of them dying even. Wing’s enthusiasm was far stronger than his attention to detail and regularity and some of the crystals required elaborate care. The jet didn’t mind doing their care, but his attention was frequently taken up by random things that captured his processor. Like now, when the jet suddenly remembered that he had to meet Dai Atlas on a matter of importance and flitted out, locking him into the house.

The last time it happened Deadlock snuck out, trying to find his way out of the city while avoiding any knights, whom, he knew by this time very well, would be able to drag him back; and then Wing would look at him sadly, give a lecture that he let fly by his audials and lock him up in his room for an orn. It was the most laughable punishment he ever saw. Not that he was complaining, it was far better than the Galvatron-style trashing if a tribesmech did something to anger him. But this time he stayed in the house and the reason for it was, somewhat surprisingly, a potted ornamental plant.

Not that Deadlock ever cared about the health of potted crystals, no. It was just another of those incomprehensible things city-dwellers did to recreate nature in an ordered, controlled form around them… after making sure real nature stayed well outside their walls. But this particular crystal, he knew well and the tribal healers also. It grew in caves, so it wouldn’t survive for long near the window, where Wing placed it anyhow… but before it withered, it would come handy for him.

He ground a few boughs into a fine dust and stuffed the particles into a small, sweet treat Wing always had at home, hiding the piece in his subspace. The crystal was tasteless and the jet wouldn’t notice such a little amount inside the sticky treat. Next, the tracker they put into him… Deadlock was carefully trying to find where under his plating they had put it for decaorns and he was fairly sure now. A few too obvious attempt to escape, going near the wall, letting them catch him easily and observing where they touched, scanned him to check for the devices… and he had a small blade that wasn’t a sword, but he admitted to himself that it wasn’t going to be swords that would free him. 

He sat in his customary place near the window and waited for the jet to return, browsing the datapad he was given. Wing decided that he should learn to read and Deadlock acquiesced – partly because it was something to pass the time and save his processor from going mad; partly because it was useful in his hunt for a way to navigate the tunnels. Every orn he could read more and more of the markings and though he still didn’t know the way out, he was fairly sure he knew the rough direction it had to be. 

There was a tunnel to the outside, he knew that with a certainty now. He had observed mechs going about in the lower city with desert dust on their plating, while the main gate was shut and locked for decaorns. The crystals had to come from the outside too. If he found that tunnel… he could not only escape, but lead the tribe into the spark of the city and reclaim his honor. And Wing. It was worth a little more patience. Till that time… he could learn whatever Wing was willing to teach him in the sparring ring and fine-tune his plan.


	5. Escaping

The opportunity came sooner than he expected. It was pure luck that as they were just leaving the sparring chambers two knights walked by, talking about something called solar installation that they have just repaired – and Wing stopped to converse with them, while Deadlock stood by silently and morosely. Until he noticed the different coloured dust on their pedes and the faint traces they left behind on the tunnel floor. There was no dark slate-coloured dust inside the city but he remembered a patch on the hillock he used to watch the city from. Deadlock inched away from the animatedly talking knights until he could see where the traces led and reading the tunnel markings from the wall. He couldn’t go far, but the traces grew in intensity until he felt the outside way had to be very close.

“Deadlock?”

“Here.” – he grunted while making a show of gazing at a relief on the tunnel wall.

“I’m sorry… you were bored, right?”

Sometimes it was laughably easy to deceive the naïve flier, so easy Deadlock nearly felt sorry for him. He scowled and nodded, not trusting his tone not to be satisfied and betray his discovery. Wing sighed.

“Right. Let’s go back.”

Back in the house Deadlock set the prepared treat out to the little plate with the normal ones while Wing was in the washracks. He had to admit, once the strangeness of so much solvent pouring over him was gone, showering actually felt good on his protoform. It might be the one thing he would miss from the city to be really clean inside his armour too. Though grooming had its positives too. Once the jet was back Deadlock checked the little plate covertly all through the orn. Wing, though refuelled as regularly as the rest of the knights, was prone to nibble on treats any time during the orn.

But it wasn’t till the dark cycle approached that he saw the prepared treat disappear. Finally, something going his way! Wing was soon in deep recharge draped on the sofa and the darkness set outside the house. Deadlock waited until the time he knew all of the knights retreated into their homes before checking on Wing – still deeply out as he should be for several more joors – and taking the little blade and some cabling out from subspace. He knew better than to touch the greatsword on the jet’s back – Deadlock didn’t think himself superstitious, but that… _thing_ he could swear was watching him – and judging. It might be able to wake up Wing despite of the strong narcotic qualities of the crystal if he tried to remove it. He twisted a piece of mesh cloth around the hilt of the sword, ignoring the angry flash of the gem the best he could.

The smaller swords he took without a problem, just as his own from Wing’s room, where they were kept in a locked container. Deadlock broke the lock with a few hits to it. He felt so much better with his swords about him already. Next he crammed every treat and energon cube that he found into his subspace. While running with Wing he would not be able to hunt for who knows how long, so every drop of energon was a boon.

Preparations done, Deadlock started carving off the piece of his plating he suspected the tracker to be under, hissing in pain through his denta, but digging in until he found something that wasn’t himself. Through the energon dripping all over it he could see and feel that the small box was certainly not part of his systems. He tugged it out as far as it came and cut the cables linking it to his internals. More energon poured out until he pulled the box out and reached into the gaping wound to pinch the line shut. His hiss turned into growling as pain and error signals flooded his HUD. He ignored them while stuffing the plating back onto the wound and taping it down. The wound would heal and it was well worth getting rid of the tracker.

Next he pulled out the stronger cable he nicked from one of the cupboards and carefully bound the jet’s limbs together, finishing off the work with a mesh blanket that he rolled the limp frame into. The last of the cable secured the flier into the blanket and Deadlock lifted him to his arms… then as he discovered the jet to be heavier than he expected heaved him onto his shoulder. It was a bit better, but he wouldn’t be able to go fast with such a burden. Murmuring a few expletives under his ex-vent, Drift snuck out of the house and into the nearest underground entrance. Down into the tunnel he sped up and had gone for a few hundred mechanometers before a sound of steps ahead stopped him – hurriedly he turned into a side-corridor and went in the first door he found. These were for storage only, he knew, safe enough for a short while. 

The sound of steps were measured and even, a mech simply going his way, certainly not seeking him or running and they died down in a few kliks. Deadlock waited for a breem more before going back to his way, navigating the well-lit tunnels with an ease he had never thought possible at first. There it was… the slate-coloured pede-prints that led towards the exit. He followed them with even more caution, but it turned out not to be necessary – the knights apparently thought that there was no need to guard the outside door. Fools!

He pressed Wing’s limp servo palm down to the scanner as he saw the jet doing with doors that were locked – until the little light turned from purple to blue and the door hissed open. His steps fastened despite of the heavy burden of Wing as he nearly ran through the dark and empty tunnel that was certainly dug here, not built, telling him that he was outside the city itself, the wall-encircled part. At the end he had to trick the lock again, but in a few kliks he was outside… among boulders that looked natural, but now he knew better, under the clear, black sky, free at last, hefting Wing’s heavy frame on his shoulder, wondering which way he should seek the tribe first…

“Slag!”

The blow to his helm was totally unexpected and Deadlock swayed and dropped his burden to the ground, turning on his attacker. Fumbling for a sword as he fell he felt stupid being attacked just as he escaped, especially facing the huge shadow over him that looked strangely like…

“Megatron…?”

“Deadlock?”

“Yeah, me.”

“I was just about to leave this place.”

“Well, it took me a bit longer to get him than I thought.”

He waved at the unrecognizable lump on the ground and Megatron stared at it too before a smirk drew his lipplates.

“Him? The mech you wanted to take?”

“The one, yes.”

Megatron laughed and slapped Deadlock’s shoulder strong enough to make him stumble.

“Was it worth the bother? You were missing for several decaorns. Galvatron all but declared you deactivated.”

“Didn’t go all that smoothly…” – Deadlock was glad that the darkness covered up his embarrassment – “These mechs are… knights, they call themselves and they can fight with swords like I never saw before. And most of the city is underground. They are far more than I could see first.”

Megatron grunted and helped Deadlock up with his… would-be mate as they started the long trek back to the tribe which have moved quite a bit during the time of their absence. 

“I saw something strange with it too. So that’s it.”

“I hope Galvatron don’t want to attack them. Even with the way in that I discovered.”

“Why?”

Deadlock shrugged – or tried to with Wing on his shoulder – wishing he didn’t say that sentence. 

“They are really good, Megatron. Better than me, you… anymech in the tribe. There’s more of them too. I’m all for glory and spoils, but I don’t like suicide.”

“Hmmm.”

Megatron grunted again and Deadlock felt that he wasn’t fully convinced yet. Of course, the big warrior didn’t see the city knights spar or the huge maze of the underground tunnels and spaces. 

“We’ve moved on since. Galvatron probably don’t want to turn back.”

“Good… I want to enjoy my time with… Wing.”

“Wing…? He’s a flier? From the city?”

“Yes… I told you it was a strange one. Their leader is bigger than you, a huge triplechanger.”

Megatron hmmm-ed again and Deadlock was afraid he had only awakened his competitive attitude by mentioning a bigger mech who could fight with swords… but the big warrior seemed to shrug the words off in a few breems.

“Good luck with your mate then… If you need to catch him just tell.”

Deadlock heard the smirk in Megatron’s tone even in the dark. He would have a hard time keeping Wing in his tent, that much they both knew. 

They travelled the fastest they could and still caught up with the tribe only after several orns. Deadlock had to feed another doctored treat to Wing when the jet started to come online – fortunately while still groggy, he swallowed the little energon goodie without a fuss and slumped back to deep recharge straight on. Megatron lifted them for a while too so their path would be just that much harder to follow – neither of them expected the city dwellers to be able to track them, but habits are habits and flying was faster anyhow. 

-o-o-o-

Wing groaned and kept his optics offline while coming to. His processor was throbbing with pain, his frame felt like it rusted together into a piece of an old, very old wreck… and his Sword was not nearby. That last discovery made him online faster than he thought possible… but it helped nothing of the fact that he couldn’t move. Aching joints that would not move were revealed as being bound, dents all over told him he must have fought somemech…? But Wing didn’t remember a fight. Only a quiet evening with Deadlock…

Deadlock. If anymech, the nomad could be responsible for his overall condition – and maybe the absence of his Sword too. Wing groaned, partly in pain, but mostly in remorse that he had underestimated the nomad mech… or rather overestimated him, being able to change and adapt to city life, being with Wing… the warrior’s infatuation with him was no secret to Wing and even if he hadn’t noticed it, others did – and advised him to use it to bind the nomad more to himself, to the city. He hated to play that game, and didn’t dare to tell even to Dai Atlas, how much his own feelings complicated it… but Wing forcibly brought back his processor to the here and now. He had more pressing matters than a little subterfuge that apparently backfired on him anyhow.

Opening his optics proved to be nearly useless, as the place he was in was almost completely dark. Wing dialed up the sensitivity in his optic receivers and slowly a small, cramped place swam into his view, with sloping walls that bent into a little dome over his helm… nothing like Crystal City, certainly not a house or a cave. The walls moved slightly – moved…? – an undulating, rippling movement over the slender, criss-crossing struts that supported them and went down to the ground, disappearing under a generous covering of mesh blankets. He was laid on top of one such heap, near the center, limbs all bound securely and tied to a small stake that stood solid in the ground when he tried to yank on it.

It had to be a nomad tent. Of this, Wing had no doubts. Deadlock somehow kidnapped him from the middle of the city, despite of all the precautions… it had to be his original plan too, now that Wing thought of it with a sinking feeling and let them mistake his intentions, let them believe his honest wish to learn from Wing… and when the time came he acted and managed to avoid all the knights of the city, all their precautions and escape. Well… there’s no point crying over spilled energon, Wing thought. He had to decide what to do now, find out what Deadlock wanted and when possible… escape. 

The tent was small and it took no time to see that there was barely anything else in it than the covers. A small box in the far corner, a few pieces shaped metal he couldn’t identify, but neither were suitable to cut his bonds with. Wing turned his attention to his restraints, but they were good quality, strong cables, the knots tied intricately and securely. He could sit, though barely and stooping a bit over the stake that felt like it was grown from the ground for he was completely unable to move it. His sword sheaths were all empty, the groove on his back nearly painfully so. His Sword was far away, farther than ever since Wing received it and its absence was like a torn hole in his spark and he had to bite back a whimper at that.

He got to this point when the tent’s flap opened and a mech… Deadlock stepped in. The nomad mech stood there, staring at him with unreadable optics. To Wing, he even looked different than he did in the city. But he had to admit Deadlock looked more like himself with swords on his hips, a blaster in a holster and some kind of a mechanimal carcass in his servo…. than he ever did in the city. He was in his natural element and Wing kind of regretted trying to change him out of it…

“I see you awakened.”

“Yes. Apparently our roles have changed a lot.” – he could even feel the little humor in the sentiment.

Deadlock nodded. He looked a bit… off to Wing, maybe the same thing, the sudden change in their roles threw him too. He put the dead carcass into the box and secured his weapons in their holsters before squatting down by Wing. If nothing else, he had learned to be vary of the knights’ abilities, Wing saw it in his cautious, vary approach.

“We are with my tribe now, in the camp. This is my tent… our tent now.”

Wing lifted a brow-plate. That was a strange sentiment.

“Ours?”

“Well… yes. Ours. As in my and my mate’s. It is our custom, how we live.”

“You share your tent with a stranger?” – Wing startled. He had to mishear the mate part. He had to.

“Not much of a stranger now… but yes. You are my mate now and it is our home. I… I hope you will, in time, understand…?”

He didn’t misunderstand it then. Wing felt a rare bout of anger suffusing him.

“I am most certainly not your mate. Kidnapping a mech and keeping him prisoner does not equal a mate!”

Deadlock looked back at his disturbed optics, his own glance strangely determined. One servo twitched towards him, but the nomad held himself back from touching.

“It does, for us.”

“You… aren’t serious.”

“I am. We kidnap the mech we want to be our mate and that’s it.”

“Do I get a say in this???”

Deadlock’s uneasy glance answered for him.

“I won’t… force you. But I hope that you can learn to… stay. With me.”

Wing sputtered and tried to collect his thoughts. If it wasn’t so queerly what they had said to the nomad, he would have reacted furiously. As it was now… he couldn’t find words.

“Wing… you’ve tried, but the city is just… not for me. I hope you’ll like the desert better. And I… I… like you. I want you to stay. With me.”

But Wing still couldn’t say anything, choking on his own arguments, since they would just all prove how hypocrites he was, they all were. He could have argued the matter with anymech else but Deadlock, whom they tried to get adjusted to city life against his wishes, despite his protests, virtually as a prisoner. And now Wing was in the nomad’s tent as a captive. What a poetic justice…

“Don’t you want to at least… try?”

He’d always found Deadlock’s face interesting. Now, with that little, hopeful vulnerability that accompanied his question… he found it even more so. 

“I don’t have a choice… do I? You’ve already declared me your… mate.”

“That’s just the tradition. I won’t touch you until you agree. It’s still your tent too and I’ll try to make life here interesting enough so you… choose to stay with me.”

“You don’t agree with your tribe’s traditions?” – Curiosity awakened in Wing as the immediate danger appeared to have passed.

“I… saw how well it went with others.”

“There’re others?!?” – blue optics flashed in surprised anger and tightened with worry. How? Was there an attack on Crystal City while he was lying offline?

“Others… from other cities. Not Crystal City. I brought only you.”

Ohh… that still wasn’t something he liked, but at least nothing he might have prevented.

“Who are they? And what do you mean it didn’t go well to them?”

“Well… the city-dwellers don’t know about mate-napping. Orion – he’s Megatron’s mate – was terrified and shocked and we think he never truly adjusted to being his mate. The city dwellers have different ideas of… interfacing and consent than we do. Megatron didn’t know this.”

“So you nomads really… really kidnap mech to be mates?”

“Yes. From the tribe, from other tribes… and very rarely from a city.”

“And you had sneaked into Crystal City to… take me, under the guise of the attack?”

“In a way, yes. Though the attack surprised me as well.”

“But why? I’ve never seen you before we met in that cell.”

“I watched the city for orns. I… saw you fly. I wanted you immediately. It was… I just felt that way.”

At Deadlock’s hesitant smile, Wing’s pinions fluttered the first time he awakened in the tent. Deep down he knew he had similar feelings for the nomad warrior from the first time he saw him… but right now it just complicated things.

“Why didn’t you… say something in Crystal City? Or show it? Why kidnapping me if you don’t even agree with it?”

Deadlock scowled at him, his servos, claws twitching again and curling into fists, obviously wanting to touch, but refraining from it.

“I don’t belong there. The other knights all despised me, would never have accepted me. Maybe not even you. I… why say anything when you interfaced with others?! This way, I can be sure you don’t go to anymech else.”

He nearly snarled the last part and Wing’s optics widened again. Was that… jealousy?

“Deadlock… if you had said anything… we could have interfaced too. True, I didn’t want to mix my duty with my pleasure, but if you wanted to…”

“No! I wouldn’t share you with anymech else! I want you to be my mate!”

There was that touch now that Deadlock so far could refrain from. It was a possessive touch, gentle, but assertive, an instinctive grab of one bound servo. It made their fields clash too, the nomad’s hot and intense one with Wing’s restrained and worried one. They were very close now and it aroused and unnerved Wing at the same time.

“Deadlock… I’m not yours. I’m interested, sure, but kidnapped and bound… sorry, but it’s not proper courting in my datapads.”

“You’d leave and fly back if I let you.” – Deadlock looked unapologetic in this – “I can’t let you go back. I want to win you. I want to have you.”

“I’m not property. I require freedom, and… where’s my Sword?”

“It’s what I wanted to tell you. It is safe. Nomech in the tribe understands what it is, but we can see that it’s something powerful… and connected to you. You will stay as long as you don’t have it.”

Wing squirmed and started to feel angry, shaking off Deadlock’s servo. 

“I must have it back.”

“Wing…”

“No! You don’t understand it! I must have it back! It will harm anymech else trying to bear it.”

“Well, we already know that.” – Deadlock’ wry half-grin was not lost on Wing even as he squirmed in the bonds, trying to reach out through the bond with his Great Sword… but the connection was oddly muted, like it came from very far.

“Where is it?” – he paused as the content reached his processor – “What happened?”

“Well, Galvatron won’t try to hold it any time soon. He’s our chieftain and right now he’s nursing a rather hefty blow to his ego, since I could hold the sword without any ill effects.”

Wing stared. Great Swords absolutely hated the touch of anymech else but their bearer’s. That his Sword has accepted Deadlock holding it… no, it had to be just a coincidence. Though a strange one. But before he could explain and demand it back once again, Deadlock changed the subject quickly.

“You must be low on fuel, right?”


	6. Compromise

“Where’s Wing?”

Valence put down his cube, lifted his helm at the sudden question and thought of it.

“I haven’t seen him for awhile. Did he miss his duties again?”

Axe smiled thinly a little but shook his helm. They were sitting in Wing’s favourite café, which was why he suddenly realized that he missed the white knight.

“He was relieved of those while he toted around that barbarian. But I haven’t seen him for an orn either and that’s definitely unusual.”

“Yeah, he trains the nomad every orn.”

“So why did he stop? Not like Wing to hole up in his house for so long.”

“Let’s ask some, maybe they know.”

But an enquiry in the cafés Wing frequented resulted no sightings and no knights have seen him in the training room or flying. His comm was not answering to any hails either. In the end, Axe took the matter to Dai Atlas, who immediately started an investigation.

“Check me the tracker in that nomad.”

“He’s… in Wing’s house.” – the knight’s voice was surprised as he checked the screen again.

“Let’s check it out then.”

But the inside of Wing’s house solved nothing of the mysteries. It was empty of mechs, but Wing’s things lying around ordered, nothing obvious missing, like he left normally and expected to return. Deadlock’s room was not revealing anything either, bare as it was, save for a berth.

“Dai Atlas, Sir!” – a young knight-in-training arrived after a breem in a near run, visibly nervous – “Valence reports that Wing has left through the tunnel! Both the inner and the outer lock was opened by him.”

“Through the tunnel? Why would he do that?”

Axe asked at the leader of the knights perplexed. Fliers rarely ever used the underground exit.

“It had to be that nomad.” 

“It couldn’t be.”

“Give me any other explanation then. How and why could Wing disappear with noone seeing it, no reason for it, along with his charge.”

“We don’t know they’re still together.” – Dai Atlas growled.

“Why else would Wing leave by the tunnel?”

“How could Deadlock force him to let him go? Wing is better than him. We all saw them spar! Wing can mop the floor with the barbarian!”

“Somehow he could. He could have convinced Wing to let him escape. You know how softsparked he is sometimes.”

“Even if he did that… where’s Wing now? I doubt Deadlock had so much convincing in him to make Wing go with him.” – Dai Atlas’ tone became dark – “If he harmed Wing, he will regret it. Deeply.”

“If we ever find him. Them. Whichever. Let’s check the tunnel and the outside exit.”

But the mystery has only grew when they examined the place outside the exit. The door was clearly opened by the lock scanning Wing’s EM field, but outside they have only found marks of two mechs, none of them Wing’s pede-steps. One was a large mech with a heavy gait, the other smaller and more nimble. It could have been Deadlock, the other one another nomad, for their tracks joined and led away together. 

But no sign whatsoever of Wing. Has he flown away? Has he been taken away? On his own volition or forced? Neither of them wanted to believe that Wing would leave without a word even if he was far more smitten by the nomad than they had thought. But the signs pointed that way…

"Should we not go after them?"

"How long could you follow their tracks?"

Axe scowled. Tracking was not among the knights' strengths and the desert floor rarely kept any signs for long. They might fly for vorns around Cybertron and never find any sign of Wing.

"Either he comes back on his own..."

"Or we search for Deadlock's tribe."

 

-o-o-o-

 

“You must be low on fuel, right?”

Now that he pointed it out… Wing became aware of the warnings on his HUD slowly dropping to purple. He nodded, though the matter of his Sword was not closed at all. Deadlock picked up the same box he saw earlier and pulled out a small mechanimal carcass, from which he tore pieces off and held out to Wing’s mouth. The jet didn’t try to hide his queasiness at the sight of the energon-dripping piece, even though he knew there would be no cubes of clean energon or treats here. He sighed. Best get it over with and hope that he can keep the meal down.

“I’d prefer to eat myself.” 

He didn’t expect Deadlock to consider it, so it came as utter surprise to see the nomad nod and carefully untie half of the knot, freeing one servo. He also put the pieces into a shallow bowl that suspiciously looked like it was made from a former armor piece and held it out to Wing, who stared at his… meal with a little grimace.

“Here.”

“Thank you…”

Now, he understood Deadlock’s table manners – or lack of it – back in the café. Apparently in nomad circles it consisted of picking out from the bowl whatever piece you wanted, cram it to mouth, chew, swallow and lick digits. The mechanimal, whatever it was had a thick hide that wasn’t easy to bite through with his denta only used to crunch anenergon treat’s thin crust and when he succeeded, Wing shuddered at the first, _thick_ taste of an energon previously belonging to a living being… he was almost glad Deadlock speaking up again, drawing his attention away from what was in his oral cavity.

“We rarely have liquid energon, like cities do. Orion hated eating at first too.”

“It’s not eating… we eat treats, as you know. It’s… it’s the fact that it was alive and was killed for its energon.”

Deadlock stared back, obviously expecting something more, while chewing on a piece with obvious enjoyment. Wing shuddered.

“So?”

“You don’t consider it… gross?”

He glanced down on the next piece in his servo, considering it, but looked back up with the same bemused stare.

“No. It was alive but now it’s dead and we eat it. It’s… normal.”

“You had to kill it for its energon… it could have lived if not for you.”

“Sure. But since I’m hungry, I hunted it and now eating it.”

“But there are alternatives…”

Deadlock actually looked angry.

“For the cities! All the wells were claimed by cities! We need to hunt to survive.”

“There are other sources too.”

“We don’t have any.”

“You could learn to get energon from many sources, like us…”

Deadlock gestured around the tent and again, Wing again was struck profoundly by its emptiness. Compared to it, his rooms back in the city were practically crammed full with objects. From the nomad’s explanation he gathered that it wasn’t even emptied for his sake – it was normal not to have many things he would take for granted.

“We don’t carry around machines that cities use. Tools and weapons fit to subspace, tents and the little furniture some of us have goes with the ones in the tribe who have cargo space. We barter goods with them for that service – I have to hunt more than I need to give up the excess for that. Machines like the ones that gather energon take up huge space, need parts and tools and mechs who can repair them. The stasis boxes are the only machines we use – they’re needed to keep food fresh.”

“I see…”

Wing stared at his energon-stained servo and on Deadlock’s smirking face as the nomad pointedly licked his claws clean. Wing stared at the glossa and quickly suppressed that little, _hot_ feeling that slithered through his circuits. Lick digits. Right. He could do it. Here, he was the outsider, the one who didn’t fit, who got laughed at for his squeamishness. At least in the tent no other nomads saw his embarrassment, like the other knights covertly watching Deadlock back at the café… and though Wing never told it to him, many of them sneered haughtily at the barbarian who had no manners and some even told Wing to give up, because the nomad would never be civilized. Even Dai Atlas was skeptical of it. Which reminded him…

“If I’m stay with you – and I’m not saying I will, just asking – but then I could never go back to Crystal City?”

“No. They would convince you to stay, to leave me. I can’t let them.”

“So I could never see my friends and family again?”

“Is that so much a problem as well? Orion was always sad when he talked about Iacon.”

Wing stared again, processor gamely trying to make sense of Deadlock’s statement. 

“I…” – he really had to spell out that one loved one’s family and friends? – “I see it must be different too… you don’t miss your family?

The klik Wing said that he wanted to call it back. It was a cruel thing to say to somemech who was essentially a stray and never knew any family. And he knew it. But Deadlock just shrugged it off like it was nothing.

“I don’t, since I never knew them. But the others in the tribe… mechs leave the family tent when they are young warriors. They build their own or go to others’ tents, maybe to other tribes and rarely ever go back. It’s normal.” – Deadlock paused and glanced at him – “You lived in your own house too, right?”

“Yes. But still… I knew my family was there, even if I lived separately.”

“You still know they are there.”

“But I care for them! And my friends there! Also, I’m a Knight and I have oaths that I can’t break.”

“Are they more important than a mate?”

Wing spluttered and started to become angry again. He was fed up with the circuitous logic of the nomad, the way he basically dismissed everything he said and insisted on his values. Then he blushed a little, knowing that back in the city he insisted on his values too. Too bad that the separate sets of values clashed heavily… Wing always tried to keep an open processor, but the nomads’ views on life were stretching it greatly. 

But he never expected what Deadlock said next. That it was _he_ who’d try to bend for _Wing_ ’s sake.

“Can you… not give it a try? I mean staying here. For a vorn. I’ll try to make it good… court you? Just give me your word not to go away before that.”

The nomad was obviously struggling with the idea but Wing was appreciating the effort he made. It went so obviously against what he was taught, what he considered normal. And put this way… he could even live with it. Staying with the tribe as a free mech might prove interesting and if he could get a message back to Crystal City… if he could leave at the end of it… if he even wanted to? It could work… 

“But not as a prisoner, right?”

“No! If you give your word… I’ll have to tell the tribe that you’re my mate though. They wouldn’t understand why I allow you go freely around if not mate. Some other mech might try to claim you so you have to stay close.”

“I must have my Great Sword back. And I want to send a message back to my family, so they know I’m all right.”

Deadlock looked uncomfortable and Wing thought he might have pushed his will to compromise too far. It was surprising in the first place that he even offered it. Deadlock shook his helm a little.

“Not right now… Tribe must see… believe you belong to me first. Some mechs won’t let new mates leave their tents for decaorns, unless we move. Weapons… only when you’re tribe member, bonded to me. And I don’t even know how to send message to your city. We won’t go back that way for vorns.”

Wing nodded. It was reasonable, if unfortunate if he understood the sketched concepts correctly. And Deadlock didn’t say no, he just listed the difficulties.

“So… you’d have me give my word not to escape, act like we are already mates, that I’m staying with the tribe willingly – and in time I can get my Sword back. You won’t force me into anything I don’t want to unless it’s necessary to keep up appearances. I let you court me with the intent to become real mates. But if, after a vorn I want to leave you’ll let me go and not pursue. Do I get it right?”

Deadlock looked unhappy, though exactly why, Wing wasn’t sure. But he nodded, confirming his summary.

“I still have to make sure my Sword is safe and see it... or rather have it close, in this tent even if I cannot wear it.”

“It’s possible… if you give your word and keep it.”

Deadlock looked at him expectantly and Wing thought the whole thing through once more. He’d try to get a message to Dai Atlas as soon as he figured out how to and establish ground rules with Deadlock and… the tribe. If he could believe the nomad – and Deadlock did appear to be honest in this – as a warrior’s mate he would be a normal member of the tribe, with as many rights as a born tribe member. Or near so, since he wouldn’t be fully trusted at first, not until – unless – they actually bonded. He could take it as an extended vacation in a queer place or a strange study tour – with Deadlock courting him to spice it up with. A single vorn was not so long a time he couldn’t give to the nomad… 

The alternative? Stay bound in the tent with his Sword somewhere else and try to escape? Wing knew he could deal with the bonds and the nomad camp… eventually. But it wouldn’t help him finding his Sword or retrieving it. Or deal with the desert afterwards while he got back to Crystal City. He could still do it… if not for the feelings he had for the nomad. That he _wanted_ to give Deadlock a chance to prove himself. That he _knew_ something even the nomad didn’t about himself – and that it was _worth_ staying a little more time to deal with the matter. Wing nodded to himself and looked at Deadlock’s patiently waiting red optics.

“Fine. I give you my word as a Knight that I won’t escape and play the mate’s role – while my conditions are properly met as well.”

Deadlock’s answering smile was so bright and honest, Wing felt it was the best decision he’s ever made. If only because it caused the nomad warrior to be truly happy, for the first time Wing saw him. He immediately started to untie the knots on the jet’s limbs, massaging the limp appendages helpfully to make the energon flow return to them. Wing allowed him this touch, partly because he felt incredibly stiff, partly because Deadlock looked so happy doing it… but he wasn’t sure he wanted the touches to become… more. Not yet.


	7. Meeting

“What can I do here while I cannot go out yet? I don’t think the space is enough for us to spar.”

Deadlock’s lipplates twitched in a mix of a smile and a grimace and Wing actually laughed a little. As much as the nomad was eager to learn anything Wing was willing him to teach, he absolutely hated being the weaker one. 

“I haven’t got a lot… but we can talk and I can invite Orion, so you can talk more.”

“I’d like that.” – Wing nodded, actually eager to see the mech Deadlock mentioned a couple of times – “Is he your friend maybe?”

“I taught him a little with swords.” – Deadlock’s grimace provoked another laugh from Wing – “and he told me a few things about cities. Megatron is friend though.”

It didn’t take long. Later that evening – though it was hard to follow the flow of time in the near-permanently dark tent – when the entrance flap was opened, Wing saw a towering frame of a mech outside, one that could give Dai Atlas a competition in size. But the huge mech didn’t enter – he might have filled the tent to capacity if he tried – only nudged a smaller, red and blue mech in. Wing saw a gentle caress on the blue helm before they parted and the mech stepped in with Deadlock in tow. Surprisingly, the entrance remained open, so a little more light filtered in.

“Wing, this is Orion, Megatron’s mate. Orion, he’s Wing.”

The red and blue mech smiled slightly and sat down to a heap of blankets. Under the faint layer of grime, Wing came to associate with the nomads, he did look different from the nomads – the frame more slender, the armor thinner, his whole demeanor just not quite fitting to the harsh desert conditions. There was a faint hint of a resigned sadness in his field as well, that shocked Wing greatly… and then he remembered what Deadlock said about things not going well for some of the city-born mechs. 

“Hello, Wing. I’d say nice to meet you, but then… I’m not sure you like to be here.”

“Umm… It wasn’t my choice, but I manage. So far.”

“Deadlock is okay…” – he cast a wry grin at the nomad, who smirked right back – “but I heard that you know him already?”

“We had some time in Crystal City together before he, ummm, convinced me to relocate here.”

Orion smiled politely, but he obviously didn’t quite understand the situation. Surprise flickered in blue optics as he asked.

“So, you came on your own?”

“Not… quite. Deadlock was… insistent.”

“I see…”

“Ohh, he kidnapped me all right.” – Wing’s tone was wry with an accompanying grimace – “But we came to an agreement about it.” 

Orion stared at him disbelievingly, but collected himself after a few kliks.

“It’s… I suppose it’s good for you that you could. It took me a long time to come to terms with my… situation.”

“What do you do now in the tribe?”

Wing was truly curious how the former city mech could acclimate to the nomadic life and they really couldn’t talk about the more sensitive subject without revealing what he agreed with Deadlock.

“I became a hunter.” – Orion smiled a little – “and I teach some of the warriors a little about glyphs and other things. There is talk about something like a school for the younger ones as well, but they change their ways very slowly in everything, so it’ll be some time yet for that.”

“That sounds great. I mean learning new things is useful for them.”

“Yes, but they teach their sparklings by example and a school is a foreign concept for them.”

Wing enjoyed the talk with the Iaconian… well, former Iaconian mech. He sounded enthusiastic about his plans to educate the tribe and the jet wished him well in that endeavour. Anything the nomads learned, bettered them in his opinion, though he realized that it was still his city-born feeling of superiority speaking. The more he saw and Deadlock explained to him, the more their lifestyle appeared to be the most optimal under the circumstances. Or, if not optimal, then efficient, like kidnapping their mates, he thought wryly. 

It was awkward when they lay down for recharge though. Deadlock’s tent was emphatically not big and his mound of blankets was the only thing to lay on. It put them very close, too close in Wing’s opinion. Despite of the nomad’s promise, despite of his own willingness to – eventually – interface with him, the sheer closeness was both disturbing and arousing. He had a healthy libido, that many called too much, so interface itself would be no problem. What held him back was mainly that he didn’t know how Deadlock would take if they did. Would he consider it as a confirmation of being mates for real? Would he just take it as shared pleasure? It was too late to clear the matter though, with Deadlock half in recharge already – unfortunately in a close embrace with Wing within the cocoon of blankets.

Wing sighed and got comfortable as much as he could. 

Two eternally long and boring orns later with only Deadlock for company and talking to amuse themselves, he could finally step outside the tent. After a strange shout he stepped outside and returned with a little urgency in his tone.

“Come. We’re moving and we have to pack the tent.”

Deadlock showed him how to fold the tent’s outer walls – the strong mechanimal hide-plates only folded at certain lines and the intricate work took a lot of attention.

“It’s usually the job of mates and elder younglings.”

“What do you do while they pack the tent?”

“We take apart the camp’s defenses and load the shared cargo into the ones carrying it.”

Wing looked where Deadlock pointed and saw at least a dozen or so nomads taking apart a fence-like thing that enclosed the circle of tents.

“These are temporary fences. When we make a longer camp we make more solid defenses.”

“Why do you need it? Against other tribes? You’re war with them?”

Deadlock stared back at him puzzled.

“Sometimes yes, but what does that… ever seen a rotorbull?”

The question sounded sudden and incomprehensible, but Wing thought of it. He saw a few mechanimals around the city, but most was small and burrowing and he didn't pay a lot of attention to them.

“Umm… no?”

“Thought so.” – Deadlock’s little grimace was telling – “They’re almost as tall as me, weigh a lot more and frighteningly fast. A herd of them could trample the tents before even the fliers could take off.”

“Uhh… but that fence…” – it looked awfully small to stop a creature Deadlock described.

“…is made in a way they don’t like it. They create a strong sound in the ground as they run and the fence resonates to it. The herd avoids that.”

Wing could only gape. That sounded entirely too clever.

“It also stops a few smaller but annoying rodents to get into the camp that steal food. Some of them are really clever in opening boxes.”

Wing gaped some more. The knights had always known something was stealing foodstuffs, but never caught the perpetrators. Small rodents? Now… that made sense…

“How?”

“Crystals are good for a lot more than look nice in pots. Healers use them all the time, but this one” - Deadlock smirked and pointed to one affixed to one of the tent struts he was carefully tying together – “deters many kind of pests.”

Wing inspected the simple-looking transparent crystal and he had a sudden suspicion.

“Is that how you knocked me out?”

Deadlock nodded.

“Yes, that last potted one you brought. Healers use that to put injured mechs under for repairing. Very strong one.”

Wing sighed. Underestimating Deadlock… or the rest of the nomads was certainly not a good idea. They had a lot more depth in them than first meet the optic. He watched as the other tied together the flaps, blankets and struts into a neat bundle and subspaced the smaller items. It became a surprisingly small packet and it didn’t take more than a few breems to pull down the tent and get ready to move. All around the tents disappeared and the bundles were taken to a couple of large mechs who transformed into cargo vehicles.

Wing felt a little uncomfortable by the glances thrown towards him by many of the tribe’s mechs – they felt vaguely judging him, evaluating his worth both as a threat and as a prospective member of the tribe and he wasn’t sure about their judgment. He was also not sure how he felt when a couple of mechs whistled in a vaguely congratulation-sounding way to Deadlock, but it was faintly annoying.

“The tribe thinks you are a good match for him.”

Wing whirled at the sudden words to find the huge mech behind who brought Orion to their tent a few orns before. Outside he looked even bigger and a lot more threatening, though he made no such move, didn’t even come close to Wing. Orion stood beside him, smiling as they carried their much larger bundle to the cargo mechs. 

“Don’t be annoyed.” – he advised Wing – “Most don’t dare to speak to you directly just yet.” 

Wing was torn between frustrated anger and curiosity.

“Why?”

“It’s about their possessiveness. Deadlock has a reputation and few would dare to even imply that they think you’d make a good mate for _them_.”

“Still, you should stick close to me.”

Deadlock was serious, more so than Wing has ever seen him – and a bit nervous, though he covered it up well. 

“Okay…so, how is it working anyhow? Some drive, some fly, some walk?”

“No, no… we all walk. You should as well. Ground here is treacherous. We keep close to the lorries and help them if they get stuck. Sometimes we can all drive, but such hard ground is rare.”

“A few go scouting forward and to the wings. Fliers fly patrols over and ahead.” – Megatron added.

“The caravan is led by the chieftain and his family.” – Orion pointed out a large mech who reminded Wing to Megatron, only even bigger and mostly purple and a few large mechs around him – “Then the elder warriors, then the new mechs like you, mates with younglings and the cargo and the procession is closed by the unattached young warriors. They fan out to defend the tribe from an attack behind.”

They moved into the indicated place in the caravan and Wing was suddenly struck by a sense of his Sword nearby, the so far muted feeling becoming stronger again. As the procession started to move he tried to get a directional sense of it, determining where he felt it the strongest. It took little time and only a few little shifts towards mechs around him to see that he felt the bond strongest when around Orion’s mate, the large silver mech. Slag. If Wing’s Sword was with him, it would be quite a bit harder to get it back. The mech would be a serious enemy even with all his training – Wing knew that size, reach and strength did count a lot in a fight – especially as he had no weapons at all at this time. 

Even with knowing that, Wing felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to take off and fly away, promise and dangers aside. Here he was, walking with a bunch of nomad strangers, probably even further away from his home, bound by his own word to stay… and his Sword which was carried by a total stranger. 

“Please… you gave your word.”

A servo held his arm, not tightly, not with any force, just a signal and Wing noticed that his turbines were spinning as they warmed up and there were many optics now that watched him… among them Orion’s wide, blue optics and Megatron’s suspicious red ones. Well. 

“Okay… I just… I haven’t flown for… orns.” 

The lie was weak even though it was true and they both know it.


	8. Learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I had the fic on explicit rating since the beginning, though nothing really happened so far that would require it... so I included a scene to do so. :-)
> 
> And the fic is getting longer than I had first planned - mainly because I enjoy the culture clash thing. Probably more than most of my readers. :-/
> 
> chapter warning: mentioned mpreg and miscarriage

Wing never saw the desert from down its floor. He thought he knew how it looked – dark reds, browns and grays swirling in a beautiful pattern, but all in all it was just an utterly desolate emptiness, only rarely broken by a living mechanism scuttling on its way. That was the way it looked from above. Crystal City was built in a place where tribes rarely went, on a high plateau that well was out of way, bordered by cliffs tall enough so the routes avoided it entirely. Apparently the wildlife avoided them as well, because here, it appeared to be far more plentiful.

But they weren’t on that plateau any more, that much he could see even from the ground, which meant they took him much farther than he had thought at first. Wing itched to soar above the slow-moving caravan, to fly high enough so that he might see the familiar landscape… but he couldn’t and it was annoying as well as worrying. If he ever wanted to go home, he wouldn’t know which way to start…

But the desert showed a façade so different from what he had known, that it took his attention eventually. The tribe was large enough to scare most mechanisms away from it, but down on the rusty, treacherous ground, Wing saw dozens of tracks belonging to small mechanimals that he never noticed from above. Deadlock pointed them out one by one, telling him what they belonged to, how it was used by the tribe, which had good energon – Wing shuddered a little but gamely listened on – which had a good hide for this or that purpose, which had claws or fangs they made primitive tools out of… and which were ferocious fighters, able to take down a mech even with armour and weapons. 

“Those are the ones fresh mates love to hunt, to prove you their worth.” – Orion put in smirking at Deadlock’s blush – “At first I never understood why Megatron brought back this useless, striped wildcat thing, until someone pointed me out its diamond-tipped claws. Then I made him an ornament out of them and he was so proud, I couldn’t even be angry at him.”

Wing laughed with Orion and glanced at the blushing-glowering Deadlock who tried to stay a step behind them.

“I’ll make sure to be properly awed.”

“But now he has to think of something else.” – Orion laughed easily.

“I think he knows by now that a nice crystal growth charms me more than a dead carcass, dripping energon…”

“It proves to the tribe as well that he values you and you’re worth the effort. They’re very social, though it doesn’t show at first glance, with their morose facades and gruff voices. But in time you’ll see that they are very attentive to each other and such gestures do not go unnoticed.”

“So I _will_ get dripping carcasses…?”

“Afraid so.” – Orion smiled at him easily.

“So, tell me something. If they’re so possessive and jealous… how come you and Megatron allowed so close to me?”

“They’re friends!” – Deadlock’s indignant voice answered him.

“Yeah, friends and also bonded. Safe… so to speak.”

“You don’t have a sparkling? I thought…” – Wing cut himself off at the sudden flash of pain on Orion’s faceplates.

“Orion lost his first.” – Deadlock answered him in a clipped tone when it was clear that Orion didn’t really want to – “we were attacked and he got injured. The sparkling emerged, but it never had a chance to survive.”

“Since then we tried, but…” – Orion sighed and pulled his arms around him – “it never took.”

“Sorry…”

They walked in silence for a while afterwards. As the sun rose Wing felt more and more uncomfortable, his plating heating up far more than it should have… until he realized that he never before walked so much in such heat and that his cooling systems were definitely not optimized for this activity. And it was barely mid-orn, with more than half of the light cycle ahead of them. 

“Deadlock. I must fly. I’m overheating.” – He saw the suspicion flash in Deadlock’s optics and continued – “Seriously. Look, I’m not trying to get away, just… it’s too hot here and I can’t handle this.”

“If you must…”

“Look if I wanted to escape, I wouldn’t do it in plain sight, in the middle of the orn!”

Wing hissed quietly, so that noone could hear, but annoyed by the nomad’s obtuseness.

“It’s… not that…”

“What?”

“There’re other fliers up there from the tribe.”

Wing’s optics widened, pinions rose and he very nearly stomped.

“So?” 

“They can… court you away from me.” – Deadlock’s reluctance and insecurity was clear.

“But we’re mates…” – Wing cast a quick glance at the mechs around them. Though not many were close, he still bit off the rest of what he wanted to say. 

“But not bonded yet.” – Orion interrupted them again – “Sorry, I couldn’t help but hearing you. Until you two bond, another mech might try to win you away from Deadlock.”

Wing stared. Then stared some more while getting angry.

“I’m NOT some kind of a… property! I have a will thank you very much!”

Orion’s glance spoke volumes.

“As you may have noticed, they’re less than keen on that free will we supposedly possess. If the kidnapping itself haven’t clued you in on it…”

“I can’t believe that nomech before objected to this.”

“They all know… and expect it to happen sooner or later. You either kidnap your mate… or be kidnapped by somemech who acts first. I’ve seen it many times since I’m here. The rest is a foregone conclusion – you become mates, bond and have sparklings. I’ve never seen the kidnapped mech object.”

“This is crazy.”

“Well, when it happens within the tribe, it’s more or less ritual, as they know each other and everyone sees the signs. When they kidnap a mech from another tribe, it’s usually preceded by some sort of a contact, so they have some inkling about what’s going to happen. That's usually the case when another from the tribe might want to get this mech as well and they contest. So for them it just… works. It’s only when we, city-bots are involved when problems arise, since we have entirely different customs and don’t know theirs.”

“Then… why do they kidnap a mechs from the cities?”

Orion looked pensive as he walked beside him and answered with a little shrug.

“I’ve asked that from Megatron about a dozen times. He could never answer really, just that… when he saw me, he felt like he had to. Like… something compelled him.”

Wing matched the smaller mech’s shrug.

“Same with Deadlock. Though…” – Wing admitted in a low voice – “I felt something for him too.”

“I think it was… has to be some kind of… love.” – It was strange to hear that assessment from the red and blue mech, it came in such a dry tone – “I can certainly see that Megatron loves me, though he never said so and probably wouldn’t ever. They’re not really great at speaking about their emotions.”

Wing listened in silence and didn’t answer immediately. Was it love? Could it be? He _liked_ Deadlock, enough so to stay with his tribe and give him a chance. But it was just a liking. Was it? 

His thoughts were interrupted by Deadlock returning – had he gone away while they were talking? Wing didn’t even notice it – with Megatron in tow.

“You can fly with him. Nomech would challenge him. Just… stay close. Please.”

Wing nodded and glanced at the huge silver mech. So he was a flier too… nothing showed outwardly, but he took off as easily as any flier, transforming as he jumped into the air. Wing took off as well, his slighter frame and oversized engines overtaking the heavier flier easily. He felt better in the air and it wasn’t just cooling… his processor needed the exhilaration of the flight, the susurration of air in his audials, the freedom, however much an illusion it was… that took his meta off his problems. He could leave Megatron in the dust, Wing was sure of that – the other mech was anything but fast, though he had firepower that could incinerate him… should it come to that. 

Wing flew until his tanks pinged him with low fuel warnings and Deadlock begged him to land as they were nearing to the orn’s end and had to make camp. The fast, efficient work that put up tents and defenses in a mere few breems made him stare wide-opticked again, but then, the nomads had practiced this for gigavorns, almost every orn, the repetitive movements keying themselves into their cables and struts, just like training and katas did in his… in a way, it was a dance. A crude one for sure, coarse and without music – but refined and pared down to the absolute essentials until only the essence remained.

Then there was a brief meeting of the tribe where apparently they discussed events from the last orn and plans for the next cycle… and Deadlock gruffly and with a laughably overdone posturing introduced him to the tribe as his mate. There were nods and short welcomes from various mechs, a few smiles and even some presents… the huge, purple mech, Galvatron scowled at him darkly - Wing immediately decided to keep as far away from him as he could – but he gave Deadlock something that the nomad passed on to Wing. It was a datapad, battered, dented with suspicious stains on it - but in a still working condition, all the more surprising since Wing knew that most of the tribe still couldn’t read more than a few glyphs. He guessed that the nomads thought datapads as appropriate presents for former city-dwellers. Orion’s wide grin just supported that belief.

He got one more present – via Deadlock, apparently it was the proper way of gifting a new mate – an elaborately carved helm of some mechanimal, turned into a drinking vessel. Wing tried to suppress his shudders at the thought of drinking a living mechanism’s energon from its own body-part… but he took it without throwing up and even thanked the mech, swearing inwardly to put away the thing so well he would never see it again. Actually eating their everyorn meal was harder after that, even with his tanks pinging him insistently for fuel.

Unlike the previous dark cycles, when the dark cycle came Wing was still keyed up from the flight and when Deadlock sat beside him on the blankets he didn’t draw away from the contact, he actually moved to touch the nomad. Deadlock froze and threw him an uncertain glance, but Wing shifted closer to him, rubbing on _dirty_ white plating. The nomad lifted a servo and hesitantly put it on his hip, the claws kneading lightly the seam there.

“Are you sure? This is what you want?”

Wing smirked and his pinions lifted, fluttered at the touch.

“Yes. I told you that I have no objections against you… well, other than the kidnapping, obviously.”

Deadlock’s servo moved up to investigate his shoulder turbines and the fluttering pinions. He was still cautious but warming up nicely and Wing found some seams to tease as well. Shaking out his wings he pressed them into the black servos and moaned as the dangerous claws slid on the sensitive metal oh-so-nicely. He mapped out the shoulder pauldrons on the nomad, the sturdy metal giving little to touch aside from the headlights… and then Drift leaned closer and his mouth captured Wing’s lips in a fierce kiss. 

They both moaned then, the sounds muffled by liplock, and servos tightened on whatever plating they had on… and Deadlock pushed Wing back, onto the blankets, climbed over him and with slow, forceful strokes rubbed his plating on the jet’s frame. Wing shifted, legs parting to accommodate him but their kiss continued, like they never wanted to stop it. Heat pooled between them, little eddies of hot air swirled between their frames and played with the sparks of current that their scratching, rubbing plating produced. Wing couldn’t keep his panel closed even if he wanted to. When it snapped open Deadlock froze and broke the kiss to look at the jet with a longing, wishful expression that made his usually dour face almost… innocent?

A hesitant, cautious servo moved lower between their frames. Digits slowly slid over the spike cover, rubbed on the anterior node that sent flashes of heat into Wing’s processor and slid lower to circle his valve that was already sweating lubricant. Deadlock’s touch became surer, bolder by the klik and Wing encouraged him with his own movements. He was fully into it, not only consenting but _wanting_ the interface with the nomad warrior. He moaned into Deadlock’s mouth when the digit slid inwards, careful with the claw, but sure in his touches. It felt marvelous, firing up his nodes and spreading the very willing mesh walls. The heat was nearly unbearable even with all their vents on full tilt, the sounds, the heat, the smells of ozone and lubricant filling the small space of the tent.

The digits disappeared, the grip on his shoulder tightened and Deadlock surged forward hungrily, his stiff spike thrust in almost viciously, filling Wing all at once in a perfect stroke. He shouted, the sudden change in demeanor surprising him and nearly overwhelming in its intensity… but it didn’t hurt, quite the opposite, it swamped his sensors with indescribably pleasure…

“Yessss…!”

Deadlock’s nearly subsonic growl answered to his shout and his hot frame covered Wings possessively, protectively… and claiming him with smooth, long strokes, hard thrusts and shallow kisses that were broken often by panting shouts and moans. Each thrust shattered his thoughts, each kiss swamped his processor with warmth… warmth that had nothing to do with actual temperature. It just… felt right to be with Deadlock, to frag him and let him claim… it was more than physical pleasure, it was a spark-deep satisfaction and compatibility, a rightness of being together he never before felt in an interface.

“Mine!”

Wing had half a thought to protest that, but the next thrust and the onslaught of pleasure deleted the half-formed refusal. Had he got some spare processor power, he would have thought it inevitable that Deadlock would say it… but for the moment he let it be and let the rocking thrusts lift him on an ever-rising spiral of pleasure into a melting hot climax. Deadlock roared loud enough so that probably the whole camp has heard…

“Wiiiiing!”

… and Wing shouted something garbled that might have wanted to come out as Deadlock, but he sure forgot half of it in the melting-hot intensity of his overload. He felt Deadlock slump down on him but didn’t have time to complain about it before his systems decided that a full shutdown was necessary… and did so.

When Wing saw the smirks and glances the next morning, he knew they were probably loud enough to wake half the camp. Wing refused to feel embarrassed, though he surreptitiously checked his rapidly dirtying plating for betraying stains – and Deadlock probably didn’t even think that he should feel so. The nomad certainly looked proud enough of himself when Megatron slapped his shoulder pauldrons strong enough to buckle his knee-joins and they laughed together. Wing lifted his optics and sighed… but then proud mechs were the same all over Cybertron, he supposed. It wasn’t like he has never seen that look on satisfied lovers who believed they had ‘ _hit it right_ ’. Let them have their fun, was his usual reaction to it and it served him well here too.


	9. Celebrating nomad style

The tribe moved with speed for the next few orns, only stopping for fuel and recharge and Wing started to get worried. Were they trying to get farther from Crystal City, was it maybe the reason for the fast moving trek across the plains? It sounded unlikely that the whole tribe would help one member – and he knew that Deadlock was not an elder or particularly important in the tribe – not to mention they played the part of willing mates now and to Wing’s knowledge only Megatron knew anything about the subterfuge. But one evening Deadlock unknowingly solved his worries by grumbling as he took out the last of their food from the stasis box.

“Slagging bad hunting grounds…”

“Is that it? But I thought we saw enough small tracks…?”

“Small, yes. Useless mostly and ground is treacherous. It can collapse and swallow up a mech. Rodents burrow and ground is full of tunnels. Hear the echo?”

Deadlock stomped hard on the ground and Wing faintly heard the hollow resonance coming back.

“Ohh…”

“We’ll be over it in an orn or two, Soundwave says and out on the Rust Hills. Then we can make longer camp and hunt.”

Wing paid more attention to the ground the next few orns while he flew and he actually caught the change – the dark gray and slate ground slowly gave was to rust-red and the formerly flat plains started to wave and rise to form gentle hillocks and shallow valleys. There were more crystal growths as well and as Deadlock said larger tracks of mechanimals too. He was looking forward to the hunt too – not all that comfortable with eating dead mechanimals still, but it sure beat going low on fuel. Their food-box was nearly empty by this time and though Wing noticed that Deadlock gave him almost all their ornly ration, leaving much less for himself – and it was still not a lot. 

Until one orn a displeased-looking Megatron appeared in front of their tent growling angrily about processorless fresh mates and pushed half a cyberboar into Deadlock’s servos.

“You can’t hunt on twenty percent, you idiot and he won’t do it for you!”

Deadlock snarled back something about nosy fraggers and that he had managed on less before - but he accepted the donated food without much fuss. Wing stared. He never saw mechs going hungry or starving before and he felt guilty that Deadlock had to because of him. When they ate the food that evening he stared at the bites with new optics, seeing not the disgusting mess, but the value of food one had to make a dangerous effort to get and which was sometimes a rare commodity. His energon back in the city came from machines at the push of a button and he never paid much thought to it. Treats and energon goodies? Only possible when one had plenty of energon, mechs working on them and even then the process of preparing them required more fuel. Small wonder that the nomads stuck to energon in its base form…

The brutal existence of the nomad tribes were hammered home even further at the next day’s hunt, which was a collective effort. One mech was trampled to deactivation by the rotorbulls that shook the ground as they thundered down on the hillsides, herded by the largest of the tribe towards the pre-made traps, nets and the waiting hunters’ rifles. The bulls obviously didn’t like being herded or they might have smelled the trap, because they tried to break out the sides continually. Two more mechs were maimed seriously, their mates dragging them away from the trampled ground, tending to wounds spewing energon and joints that crunched and sparked… it was a brutal reality for the young knight who so far has seen only a few clean, sword-cut injuries in the rare battles Crystal City had. 

But in the end several dozen bulls lay on the drenched, trampled ground and Wing learned a new unpleasant fact of the hunt when he was directed to a carcass to hold empty cubes under an energon-spewing wound, while others swarmed around the ones with no wounds. It looked like a waste with all the energon splashed around… and on himself too, to his dismay. 

“Only the ones with their fuel inside worth keeping in stasis boxes.” – Deadlock explained to him while he worked on another bull – “This one was taken down by a mech incorrectly and the main fuel line broke. It’s useless as food so we won’t take it. But collecting as much of the fuel as flows out is saving some.”

“How do you share the food?” – so far Wing thought that the tribe members hunted individually.

“Hunters who risk their lives get their share first. The chief allots the catch by seniority and need. Then the elders and the rest.”

One by one the boulders of bull carcasses that dotted the mangled hillsides were expertly cut apart with searing hot energon blades to keep the energon inside and the pieces disappeared. Wing had to help Deadlock to haul an impressive piece back to their tent and stuff it to the food-box. They also got several cubes of energon too in consideration to Wing’s preference. In the end Wing’s only woe was that he was absolutely filthy now; over the slowly accumulating dirt he now had energon smeared all over and rust adhering itself to the drying but still sticky fuel. The small cloth in his servo looked entirely inadequate to get clean.

“Don’t bother to clean much. We’ll have a hunt next orn too and a feast afterwards. Most of the tribe was low on food after the Drumming Sands.”

“I think I’ll never feel clean again.” – Wing’s tone was absolutely miserable as he rubbed at some of the stains but gave up fast. It just smeared. 

Deadlock laughed and nodded.

“That washrack thing is something I might miss from your place.”

“You didn’t look like you enjoyed it at first.” – Wing laughed too.

It was good to easily banter with Deadlock. It made him… normal. Not a nomad, not a kidnapper – just a mech he can laugh with as they talked. It felt… good. Comfortable. He missed having friends around and now he could consider Deadlock as one. 

“I didn’t. It was cold. Here… nothing is that cold.”

“Well, dark cycles aren’t very warm outside the tent.”

“But not wet and cold.”

“I’d take wet and cold over being filthy any orn.”

“I’d take you filthy or not…”

Wing smirked. Deadlock was a good lover, considerate and gentle, quite the opposite he would have imagined a nomad warrior to be. Sure he was dominating and spiking exclusively, but so far Wing was okay with that too. Later… well, he’d have to see if there was any later and how they dealt with it.

“Would you now… !”

Wing squeaked when Deadlock pounced and pushed him backwards, onto the blankets and settled on top of him smugly.

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

Deadlock pinned his servos over his helm and proceeded to kiss Wing into the next orn. His kiss was harsh, biting and possessive, just like his hold on the squirming jet…. But Wing loved it all the same.

“Any time.”

Black pelvis humped Wing’s rapidly heating paneling and he spread his legs, valve already lubricating in expectation.

“Anywhere…”

Black and white spike rose pressurized, its head beading with lubricant that he smeared on the jet’s plating. Wing bucked up playfully and smirked, tearing himself away from the kiss.

“Would anywhere by any chance include Crystal City too?”

Deadlock growled and froze over him, his field pulsed with a distinctly unhappy wave.

“Anywhere.” – he answered slowly at last with an effort – “ But I’d be a prisoner there.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

Deadlock snorted and didn’t answer. His lust was waning, but he still kissed and licked Wing’s throat, the sensitive cables there. 

“I mean it.”

“Even if you would… the other knights… Dai Atlas… would never accept me. And I wouldn’t feel right there. City is… prison even if you aren’t a prisoner.”

“It is not. Not really. I kept you inside too much, it was my mistake, but now… we could be outside all the time, only recharge in the house.”

“And remember: washracks.” - he laughed, trying to lighten the mood. Wing bucked again, wanting that spike in his valve before they turned too serious. He wanted to slowly soften up Deadlock’s resistance to the idea and he was keyed up. The nomad took the change of subject in stead and attacked his mouth with renewed gusto. Though tired and worn out, they didn’t manage a lot of sleep that dark cycle either.

-o-o-o-

The next orn they went for an entirely different hunt, this time of a more individual variety. The nomads spread out in small groups and tracked smaller herds and mechanimals, this time the camp’s hounds also helping them. Deadlock went with Megatron, Orion and Bulkhead with his mate, a slender mech with red plating that Wing immediately became envious – if only because it was spotlessly clean and waxed. He wondered how the nomad mech managed it. The jet was flying overhead the group, mostly watching interestedly what they were doing, not all that okay with killing a mechanimal himself. Besides the nomads didn’t trust him not to foul up the hunt either and they were probably right.

They caught many smaller game than the previous orn’s rotorbulls and soon Wing started to realize that they picked specific ones this time, while avoiding others entirely, even though all they met with were good to eat, as far as he knew. It was also obvious that the small group was working well together, used to each other by long familiarity and experience. Like long term friends. He also noticed that returning to the camp, the group has deposited a portion of the catch to a couple of old mechs who were preparing the food – and Wing remembered what Deadlock told last orn. A feast. A celebration of sorts of lucky hunting and plentiful food. Well. At least he could try to get rid of the filth on his plating, as much as solvent-soaked cloths and grooming could. Deadlock helped him to get clean and though the result wasn’t perfect, it was still a step in the right direction.

Later that evening, when the sun has set the tribe started to collect in a place among the tents and when they were mostly there, a large bonfire was started, fuelled by oil and energon in a shallow, wide bowl, studded with some crystals that painted the flames to many flickering, magical colours and produced plenty of sparks flying in the light breeze. Wing stopped when the fire was started and stared, wide-opticked and frozen… he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Open fire was almost unheard of in the cities, though of course they used furnaces and such to work with metal.

But the sheer, uncontrolled savagery of the flames that stretched higher than the tallest nomad and danced with many colours, spat and blew myriads of short-living sparks into the dark sky, like mad glow-beetles swarming… it was mystic and barbaric, untamed and dangerous… and absolutely shocking to the jet, who has never seen anything even close to it.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Orion stood beside him, his optics also riveted to the rare spectacle. Deadlock and Megatron, somewhat better used to the sight stood behind, watching proudly their mates’ enjoyment.

“I bet you don’t get bonfires at home either.” 

“No… no, we don’t have anything like this. It’s so… beautiful.”

There were dark shapes moving around the fire, the nomads moving about, talking, laughing, playing or simply watching the fire. Wing could now see the dynamics of the tribe, after some orns; the elder mechs with mates and family who quickly claimed their place by the fire; the warriors, usually just with one mate and many with a smaller sparkling; and the milling group of the younger warriors who seemed unwilling to settle down yet and wandered around the crowd. All around the larger younglings played raucously in the darkness, playing their games that were half practicing adult activities, partly… well, Wing was not all that prude, but the free, unconcerned way the nomads interfaced publicly was an optic-opener even for him.

“Would you like to get closer… or avoid the throng?”

Deadlock touched his arm to call his attention away from the spectacle.

“It’s fine there.”

Wing wanted to see the bonfire, it was just such an amazing sight – and he didn’t mind the company either. Deadlock stuck close to him like a barnacle and growled at some of the others who came close – but it was just received with some lewd jokes from the elder mechs and a hurried step backward from the other warriors. Wing smirked and let him play the protective mate, even hissed at a mech who jostled him hurrying by. The surprised glances after that held approval too. 

The feast was a surprise too – besides the usual fare, somemechs in the tribe created actual dishes out of the mechanimal flesh – Wing wouldn’t call them treats or goodies, but they were more elaborate than raw pieces; bite-sized morsels seasoned with various metals and enclosed in gel-like covers that melted in the mouth. The tastes were strong, harsh, occasionally bitter and hot – but they were interesting and certainly less distasteful than the usual food. Wing even found a sweet-tasting piece, but apparently it wasn’t to the liking of the nomads, for only Orion and himself sought more of it from the dishes that wandered around from servo to servo. 

There were some recitals of what sounded like heroic stories from the past that got the younglings cheer and the elder ones groan; some songs that most of the tribe took part in with various skills of singing and pitch; less elaborate but more popular stories that made the young knight blush and most of the nomads laugh uproariously. All the while, they ate like starving mechs and after most of the dishes were empty, smaller cubes were brought forward and distributed to the loud approval of the warriors. Wing sniffed his when he got one and just the fumes were nearly enough to knock him out; it was high-grade, but of a crude and strong variety, the kind Wing has never drank before. For a klik he debated of giving it back, but then he mentally shrugged – he had done several things by now that he never did before, what’s one more? 

With a deafening roar the tribe lifted their cubes as one and drank – Wing joined in the drinking, though not the shouts and threw it back like the nomads. 

“Wing, careful…!”

The warning came late. Wing found the sluggish thought in the haze of the strong fumes that swamped his processor that his intake tubing might melt, but then the burning sensation oozed down his intake and into his tank, and for a klik he fully believed that it might shrivel up corroded from the burning-hot liquid… the jet became aware of spluttering, trying to spit the rest of the high-grade in vain and crazily thought that he must have lost his glossa somewhere along the way… 

“Wing… Wing? Are you… all right?”

“hhhnnnnnn….”

His missing, probably melted or burned away glossa was unable and unwilling to form coherent words. Wing himself was incapable of concentrating to anything else than the burning-smelting-flaming sensations that ruled his innards and threatened to eat up him from inside out.

“Here… drink this.”

A cube was held to his mouth but Wing turned his pain-swamped, aching helm away. At this point he was sure that he might not drink anything ever again, unless the tribe had a really good medic who would be willing to replace his intakes. And Deadlock, Primus frag him backwards, was laughing. Slagging nomad.

“It helps, believe me. Drink.”

“Nnnnoooo…”

But the burning has abated a tiny little amount and Wing felt like having a barely, but still functional intake again. 

“Yes. You must.”

The cube at his lips was tilted and a thin, cool oil was dripping on his lipplates and into his mouth, like water on fire, like base on acid, like heavenly manna… Wing obediently swallowed the cool liquid and it soothed his burning intake tubing immediately, quenched the raging inferno in his tank and he felt he could vent again without inhaling any more flames.

“Aaaaaa….”

“I know. Orion did the same thing first time.”

He was still laughing and dimly Wing realized that they had audience too, the nearby nomads watching them with identical, turbowolf-like, sharp smiles and wide laughs. The fraggers. But the oil did its work and the burning slowly abated until it was just a dull embers adhering themselves to aching intakes and Wing could think – and speak – again. Somewhat.

“What the Pit-smelting slag was that?”

“High-grade. Decepticon style.”

“High-grade.” – Wing repeated dryly through the haze of the flames encroaching on his processor now – “I have drank high-grade before and that was… that was… not it.”

“The cities make weak one. Ours is better.”

“Just know Wing, that you’ll be more drunk than after three or four cubes at home.” – Orion added helpfully and sympathetically. 

“Oh, great…”

He already felt the high-grade relentlessly overcharging his processor. It had the blunt force of an industrial power-hammer and all the finesse of one too. Fitting for its… ummm… taste, Wing thought dazed. He was suddenly glad that he was sitting. The dark, fire-studded world started spinning around him. Were they dancing? But why all of them around him? Why was the _bonfire_ dancing around him too? It was a good thing that Deadlock stayed still, Wing needed someone to hang onto in the swirling, chaotic dance around him.

In fact… Wing crawled into Deadlock’s lap, hiding his heavy, melting-throbbing-rotating helm in white plating. He felt more than heard the rumbling laughter from the nomad and the slow petting felt good in the chaotic darkness, it anchored him to something, didn’t let him drown in the burning haze, it was so nice to feel the gentle servos on him… until he was lifted and everything around suddenly spun again like a getaway ferris-wheel, flames, smells and shadows melted together into a whirling spiral and Wing whined wordlessly, trying valiantly not to throw up. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Just a few more steps…”

And he was put down into the amazingly quiet and calm interior of the tent, that was Primus-sent on his optics and when and why did he open them Wing didn’t know but closing them was a good idea so he did as he sprawled over soft blankets and whimpered some more as it didn’t stop… the world didn’t care about shut optics and dark tents and continued to spin aggressively. 

“I think it was by far the fastest getting drunk I saw, including Orion.”

Deadlock’s tone held a sarcastic smirk and Wing wanted to tell him to shut up, but he didn’t remember the words and gave up after a few kliks. He did manage a groan and maybe a push at one of the arms holding him – Wing was pretty sure he remembered how to lift his arm and do that. Probably. 

“Now, now, you did it all by yourself.”

That he did, Wing knew. That he would never again drink high-grade he also knew, or at least swore not to. It didn’t help either.

“Recharge if you can. It helps.”

How could he recharge with the world whirling around him like an evil carousel with a mad cackle? How could he recharge with his helm hurting, his tanks burning and Deadlock laughing at him? How could he…

But jumping headfirst into a calm, cold, dark lake that suddenly appeared in front of him seemed like a good idea. At least it didn’t spin.


	10. Fight

Wing onlined the next morning with hardly any memories of the evening before beyond the bonfire and the food. Consequently he didn’t understand why Deadlock was so… mischievously smirking at him and why his helm felt like an empty cube with silence echoing loudly inside. Well… at least not until his memory banks updated his processor. Then he was just embarrassed and didn’t dare to ask what he’s done after his memories became sporadic. Thank Primus at least he didn’t have a helmache. His tank felt precarious and the embers of the formerly raging inferno still smoldered in his intake… but it was hardly worse than after a spicy food, so he could ignore it. All in all Wing didn’t feel too bad… but neither would he want to get up and face the world. Or the tribe. Not yet.

“It’s okay. Many others drank a lot, so it’s quiet still.”

The upper reaches of the tent were folded back a little, forming something like windows and the early rays of sunshine painted golden abstracts onto the darker inner surfaces of the mesh walls. A whiff of acrid smell told Wing that during the dark cycle it must have rained a little but it was still better than the stale air the tent usually acquired by the morning. For such an apparently makeshift construct the tent was surprisingly sturdy and airtight. It had to be, he knew – Wing had seen dust storms from the city and some were strong enough to test even built structures.

“Right…” 

Outside, it was unusually quiet for the morning. Wing freely admitted that he was used to recharging late in the city, but the nomads always got up at the first rays of sunlight and the increasing noise of the camp woke him up too. Not this orn though. A few distant words and a lone laughter signaled those who were up and about, probably some youngsters, he sleepily wondered, with their seemingly endless resources of energy – and the fact that they didn’t get high-grade yesterorn.

“I know a few ways to clear lingering charge if you want to…”

Wing snorted inelegantly but honestly. Trust Deadlock to be ready to interface any time.

“Nah… I’m tired more than overcharged.”

“You wouldn’t have to do anything.” – a kiss muffled his answer and scattered whatever thoughts he managed to gather – “I’ll do all the work.”

“Mmmmhhhmm….”

Wing didn’t argue. Deadlock leaning over him, his energon-tasting kisses and small bites, his rough but still gentle servos were comfortable by this time, normal, natural even, like they always recharged together, like they belonged together as day and night. Opposites, yet complementing each other. Different in everything from backgrounds to upbringing, yet learning about each other every orn. Deadlock’s spike sliding home was as natural as venting or his spark beating. Their frames fitted together like two sides of a shell, though it seemed impossible when he first embraced the nomad. Their passion flamed each other’s, their fire was stoked by the other’s. It was heaven and Wing never thought he could experience such a feeling of _home_ in the nomad tent, in Deadlock’s arms.

It was something he realized suddenly that he didn’t want to lose.

A joor later, much more awake and sated he snuggled into the nomad’s embrace. They lay comfortably within the heap of blankets and enjoyed the sun shining in and the clean morning air fill the tent. It was almost too comfortable, too good to Wing, who felt a flicker of guilty conscience at not trying hard to escape, to find his city, his family and friends… that he was giving in to Deadlock too much. But only for a klik.

“Deadlock?”

“Yes?”

“You promised that I can have my Sword back.”

Deadlock shuffled a bit, uneasily and in the end he sat up.

“Why is it so important? You’re safe. I can protect you…if anything happens. It is safe too.”

“You never got it, have you? – Wing looked at him seriously – “I am **bonded** to my Sword.”

“Bonded? But that’s… just a figure of speech… right?”

“No. No! It is a real bond. Like… when two mechs bond. The Swords have a spark too… well, sort of. It’s a bond for life.”

Deadlock stared at him narrow-opticked, like gauging his honesty, visibly shocked.

“Then the Sword is your… _mate_?”

“No! We can bond with a mech – should we choose to. The sword-bond is different. Less strong.”

Wing fell silent, trying to find words. He never had to explain it to anyone who didn’t grow up in Crystal City, didn’t know about the knights and their swords. But before he could continue, Deadlock spoke up again.

“Then… is it like a sibling bond?”

“More like that, yes. But the fact is… I need to have it around me. Going without it for this long is very uncomfortable.”

“I see.”

Deadlock looked disturbed and struggling inside. 

“If you get it back… will you… will you try to leave?”

“No. I gave you my word, remember?”

“Yes.”

Deadlock wasn’t fully convinced, Wing could see it. He struggled between wanting to believe Wing and trusting his own instincts… but by this time Wing realized that he had no wish to break his word, unless something catastrophically wrong happened. He tried to put that honesty and conviction into his next words.

“I truly won’t. I… I feel home with you. Safe. Happy.”

“Okay… stay here.”

Deadlock was out and back nearly before Wing freed himself from the clinging blankets and put them to somewhat in order – an ongoing job, because they appeared to have a processor of their own and an attitude to boot, therefore they were always in a chaotic heap that felt vaguely alive and moving about in the tent. 

Deadlock stood in front of him and silently held the mesh-wrapped bundle out to him and Wing took it with a groan. The Sword’s field was distinctly unhappy… one could say it was enraged and seriously pissed off. He would have a job trying to calm it down and get back in synch. Wing sat, the Sword loosely balanced in his servos and glanced up to Deadlock.

“You can stay and watch, but… don’t talk please. I need to meditate.”

The sun-rays were dark gold and flat on the other side of the tent by the time he perceived the outside world next – but his thoughts were clearer than any time since arriving to the nomad camp and his Sword hummed calmly again in his servos. Deadlock was nowhere to be seen and the tent was empty save for a cube set out in his reach, for which Wing was glad. He gulped it down, made a face at its heavy taste and slid the blade into its place on his back. It felt so _right_ to feel its thrum again where it belonged…

Wing stood and stepped out of the tent with a fresh spring in his steps. The settling sun painted the camp a golden yellow, gave it an offwordly aura as the warm light suffused the dust particles in the air. The eddies of air were neatly visible as mechs moved about, the nomads going on with their usually evening business. There were some who nodded to him from nearby tents, though he didn’t know them all by designation – and Wing noted the sharp, occasionally interested glances that fell onto the hilt of his Sword that rose over his helm. 

There was a nod and half a smile from the large mech that Wing remembered being Megatron’s friend, but the jet saw disapproving glances as well from others. Ignoring the latter, he strolled casually into the middle of the camp, intending to tell Deadlock that he could come back to his tent. He has appreciated the privacy for the meditation – it wasn’t easy to placate the Sword after so long separation. But before he found Deadlock, a shout stopped Wing on his track and straight after the shout a push, nearly a hit on his shoulder.

“No!”

He turned fast, training and instinct pushing away the offending servo and came faceplates to faceplates with a huge, mostly black mech he didn’t remember seeing before.

“Parading with a sword before proving yourself!”

Another push came and Wing had a hard time to stay on his pedes – the mech was large and strong. He was also furious, faceplates distorted in cold rage, snarling at him.

“Back off, Turmoil.”

Wing’s helm whipped to the other side and cursed quietly. The newcomer was the tribe’s chieftain, Galvatron and Wing felt distinctly boxed in between the two giants. Though at least Turmoil stepped a tiny step backwards at the chieftain’s words.

“What’s the problem?”

Turmoil snarled at Wing again. Wing stood his place but inside he was recoiling from the unreasonable fury the black mech exuded. To his best knowledge, he has not seen this mech, had never talked about him even… so why was he so enraged…?

“He has no business with a weapon yet! Deadlock allows him too much!”

“Wing has every right for his weapon, Turmoil.”

It was Deadlock appearing among the gathering crowd, holding back his own fury by a tenuous control and Wing was glad for his presence. Though he could theoretically fight his way out from this mess, he would vastly prefer to solve it in their way, within their traditions. If it was possible.

“He hasn’t even hunted with us yet!”

Deadlock smirked smugly besides glaring at the fast collecting mechs on all sides.

“So, he’s not a hunter.” – he shrugged – “But he’s warrior enough. More than enough for the likes of… you.”

Turmoil calmed down suddenly and Wing started to feel a little apprehension. It never bode well when a furious mech calmed down at an implied insult. It hinted that he had an ace up his vambrace…

“He must prove it.”

Deadlock glanced at Wing and the first spark of worry flashed in his red optics before he forced it to disappear. He glanced to Galvatron next and Wing know that it was an issue the chieftain should decide – and that the purple mech had reason to be miffed at his Sword. Consequently he was more than surprised when Galvatron laughed in his deep tone and gestured to Deadlock.

“Your call if you want to answer it.”

Wing was plain confused. Turmoil snarled and stepped back again.

“I can accept this challenge for you” – Deadlock hurried to explain the situation to Wing – “Since we’re mates. An insult to either of us can be answered by either of us. He challenges your right to bear arms.”

Wing huffed and looked insulted. Deadlock smirked, though still a little worry was in his glance.

“I know, I know. I don’t question it or that you can handle him. I just… you don’t know all the rules.”

“What are they?”

“You have to fight him if you accept the challenge. You may not kill or seriously maim him. Both of you may use any weapon – mind you he has that cannon and prefers firepower over blades – and any ability.”

Wing understood. It was almost a no holds barred fight so he could fly, but Turmoil could shoot his wing off – well, if he could. It was also something he only knew theoretically, since knights never fought in such way, not even in real attacks when the city had to be defended. No matter – Wing would stick to his own ethics and Turmoil can use his for all he cared.

“If Galvatron calls a stop for any reason, you must stop. He calls the end as well if he’s satisfied with your abilities, so Turmoil can’t carry on forever, even if he could.”

Wing nodded. It was all sensible in its barbaric way.

“So you do take him on?”

“Of course.”

Wing saw the approving glances around. Obviously, even though Deadlock was within his rights to accept the challenge in his stead, it was preferred that he answered it. Fitting for their norms, Wing thought and would do nicely to establish his place in the tribe. Wing pushed the small thought aside that asked him _why_ would he want a place there… it was a question for later.

The nomads retreated to form a rough circle around that left only Turmoil and Galvatron with him in the middle – even Deadlock stepped back after a quick kiss to Wing’s lipplates, a peck really, leaving him surprisingly warm and content – before he focused back to the upcoming duel. The black nomad was very large, but not as much as Megatron, though he looked very heavily built and consequently slower too. Even without Deadlock’s warning it was obvious that he preferred firearms to servo-fighting – the cannon on his arm looked ridiculously overlarge, probably drawing a lot of energy from its wearer and its firepower had to be greater than its accuracy.

All in all, he appeared to be an easy opponent for a trained knight…. but Wing has learned lately not to underestimate the nomads. Deadlock surprised him too many times for that. What they might have lacked in formal training they more than make up for it in shrewd and quick thinking and an almost brutal, down-to-Cybertron pragmatism. He would have to consider the mech’s size as well and any number of possible surprises too.

There was no further signal as the circle of nomads watched on and the two combatants circled each other with slow steps, watching each other’s movements with sharp, measuring optics. Galvatron also moved to the edge of the ring and Wing noticed Deadlock and Megatron beside him, talking in low tones, but mainly watching the fight. He dragged his attention back to the fight and his enemy and just in time…

The first shot was more like a test of his attention than a real attack and Wing landed again after instinctly jumping to the air while the energy beam melted a patch of ground into slag where he used to stand. He drew his Sword slowly, circling the black nomad from the other side and rotating it in his servos a few times. The amber gem in the sword’s crossguard shone with inner fire and energized the blade with a golden halo that was the same shade as Wing’s optic… and incidentally the setting sun’s tone. The nomads around them whispered at this, the susurration of their mingled voices creating a queer atmosphere in the ring.

Wing tucked his wings onto his back tightly – he could jump and manage a short flight without them and there was no reason to give the nomad access to such sensitive targets. A quick slash towards the black armor, testing his reactions and Wing danced away easily from the answering growl and the grab from a black servo. He was definitely not letting the huge nomad to make it a brawl! But he had to concede that Turmoil was faster than he looked as he avoided the blade. The nomads might not have had formal training, but as he saw in Deadlock in the city when they sparred, they had a lot more experience in real fighting than Wing, and plenty of well-honed natural instincts for it. 

Wing ducked and let the cannon-arm swung over his helm, the swish of its passage and the heat it exuded so close it nearly singed the points of his audial flares; and he brought up the sword sharply before Turmoil could step away. A slightly charred piece of black armor clattered to the ground, the nomad roared and Wing danced away again – but not fast enough for the other servo to connect with his shoulder turbine. The strength of the hit threw Wing to the side and crumpled the side of the engine – it hurt like Pit, but it was still functional.

He continued the fall with a roll to the side and it was good that he did – the energy beam melted the ground again, mere inches from his frame and it was not a testing shot this time but a full-powered one. Wing kicked out while down, but felling the much heavier nomad was unlikely and he realized it the nanoklik his pedes connected with a black greave and pain jagged up his cables. It was like kicking a solid pillar. Or – Wing smiled ruefully for a split nanoklik – like trying to kick out Dai Atlas’ legs from under him. In one word: futile.

Turbines roaring he jumped into the air again, slashing at Turmoil easily as he rose, the nomad unable to deflect the gleaming blade again, which cut another small piece from his armor, a weapon’s muzzle on the torso that had secretly worried him before. It was the same technique he used the first time, against Deadlock – the small but embarrassing cuts enraging the less controlled nomad until he made a mistake – or the fight was called. And really… it wasn’t hard to avoid Turmoil’s attacks, the nomad’s moves were nearly advertised by his faceplates, his grimaces, his angry glances.

Wing kept ducking and jumping, as deflecting the intended blows jarred his arms with their strength and the cannon was an everpresent danger he had to be careful of; and kept cutting off tiny bits from the black armor until he heard the first snickers from their audience. They appeared to enrage Turmoil even more and made him attacking recklessly. The next shot singed Wing’s side and he hissed, self-repair stemming the energon flow immediately and he repressed the pain signals. In retaliation he jabbed the end of his Sword into where the cannon joined the arm, severing the connection with a precision that left the cannon itself intact. This time, the nomad’s roar was tinged with pain and the audience whistled with approval.

Wing glanced to the side for a nanoklik, to see if Galvatron had seen enough, but the chieftain just watched them, smirking at the spectacle, looking satisfied and entertained. Deadlock looked a bit more worried, but he, too cheered Wing when he saw the jet’s glance slide his way. Wing shrugged inwardly – he could continue this bout for joors if needed, it was Turmoil who would run out of energy far faster. So he danced away again as a smaller gun opened fire – ahh, so he was running low! – and slashed lazily at the nomad’s backside, leaving a scorched line on his aft. This time the snickering gave way to loud, boisterous laughter. 

Turmoil attacked furiously, like an enraged rotorbull, his servo holding a flanged mace this time as he shed the useless cannon and Wing turned serious. Such a weapon in a stronger opponent’s servo could easily prove more dangerous than a cannon. Even just deflecting it would be jarring… and he staggered backwards from exactly that, thanking Primus that his Sword while charged would not break even under such force. He turned the lurching movement into a backflip, ducked to the side under the swung mace and slashed at its handle. The roar of pain told him that the cut took some digits as well, but he was already moving away, rolling into a stand easily. 

“Enough!”

He was glad to hear Galvatron’s shout – Turmoil had been rude and deserved his lesson, but Wing had no wish to harm him any more seriously. Wing saluted the chieftain as he was taught and slid his Sword back onto his back, into the holding clamps. Deadlock slammed into him, embracing him strongly not a nanoklik later.

“ooomphhh…”

“That was impressive. Deadlock choose well.”

Megatron’s words apparently expressed what most of the nomads thought, because Wing could hear the assent and approving murmur from all around. Galvatron too nodded to them before he unceremoniously hauled the growling Turmoil away to the tribe’s healer. Wing supposed it was an approval so he could wear his Sword openly among the nomads. He smirked at Deadlock as the nomad let up his tight embrace and his tone turned mischievous.

“At least I can teach you now.”

Deadlock looked embarrassed, but most of the others just laughed as the crowd started to disperse.

“And probably a lot of the youngsters too.”

Wing looked around curiously and his optics fell onto a dozen of the tribe’s youngsters who remained nearby and stared at him like he was Primus himself. It was almost embarrassing.

“If they want to...”

“But first we have to celebrate!” – Deadlock held Wing possessively close and the youngsters dispersed, laughing behind his back.

“NO high-grade!” – Wing warned him with a grimace.

“Not the kind of celebration I had in mind…” – Deadlock smirked back lecherously and Wing realized that the sky turned black while they fought, the dark cycle fell and the tents lit up one by one from the inside. He felt content with his Sword humming on his back, his mate holding him close and heat slowly flooding his lines as Deadlock whispered him his suggestions all the way to their tent. Even a quick meal they grabbed couldn’t quite cool the fire that grew under his panel.

Before they succumbed to their passion though, Wing had one more question that irked him ever since he first heard Turmoil’s furious shout. It was way overblown even by nomad standards, sounding quite personal.

“Why was he so angry? I never met him before.”

Deadlock stopped with his attempts to tease him and looked uncomfortable… Wing almost called it afraid, but of course the nomad just didn’t do afraid. Did he?

“When I was much younger and just a nomech in the tribe really… Turmoil harassed me quite a lot. I realized later why, when he actually tried to kidnap and claim me.”

Wing blew a hissing vent. It sounded just as bad as he thought…

“He… didn’t…”

“He didn’t succeed, no. Obviously. I fought him off.”

“So in a way he was just… jealous?”

“Kinda.”

“I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Me too.” – Deadlock leaned over Wing and whispered it again into his mouth – “Me too…”


	11. Presents

Deadlock was happy to see Wing getting more comfortable and at ease with the tribe. Defeating Turmoil – which gave him a very personal, deep satisfaction too – was about the last step in being accepted as a tribe member, a nomad warrior. Of course he could still turn out like Orion, who faltered at actually taking the life of another mech in actual combat… but Deadlock didn’t think so. Wing was fighting in that battle, back in the city and didn’t look squeamish to do so. He was also teaching half a dozen younglings to swordfight, which made him very popular among the creators. Deadlock had done it before, but he wasn’t quite a teacher material, while Wing was natural. He would look good with a youngling of his own…

Deadlock sighed quietly. That was still very far if he read the jet well. No matter how much he fit in with the tribe, it was obvious that Wing treated his stay as temporary and longed for his home. He would keep his word, stay a vorn… and probably disappear afterwards, not looking back to Deadlock. Sure, they fragged a lot these orns and it was amazingly good… but Deadlock learned in the city that for Wing interfacing was for fun, meaning no commitment. And he didn’t know how to court the jet to stay and become his mate. Presents he gave were accepted with a small smile and a polite nod – but Wing must have had far more things, far more elaborate objects in his home and it was felt in the way he looked at them. What he could give were probably just worthless trinkets to him. 

And to be perfectly honest with himself, Deadlock was not even sure what he could do that would count as courting. He asked Orion of course. The young mech was helpful and talkative, but most of his suggestions were useless out in the desert. Deadlock couldn’t take Wing to an excursion – they were technically on one all the time so he couldn’t see the point – there were glaringly no cafés and concert halls around and the one oil pool he knew of was half a planet away. Nothing the tribe had in way of energon treats could contend what the cities had as given. Deadlock was not a mech to write poems either, it was just… a laughable idea. That left pitifully few things on Orion’s list and Deadlock didn’t think more presents of any kind would make a difference.

That left… the nomad jumped to his pedes as a sudden thought struck him. It would be dangerous as the Pit, but it just made the idea all the better. The season was right, so he had a little luck there too. Leaving the camp hurriedly he turned towards the deeper part of the rolling hills, where a particular species of fragile, transparent, glasslike crystals grew like an impenetrable thicket. Few mechanimals could manage the place, since the crystals when disturbed broke into billions of dangerously sharp, small shards that could cut deeply into seams and bleed a mech dry in breems. Deadlock smeared a thick paste into his own seams to caulk them against it and carefully waded into the thicket.

Such places always contained a nest, he would just have to find it. It would be in the deepest part and its owner would be alerted by his approach – there was no way to be quiet as the crystals fractured with an almost musical sound that belied their dangerousness. So he went on with weapons in servo, watching the underside of the crystals for the owner of the nest to appear. He went on with cautious steps, shattering the deadly boughs ahead and around him… and he nearly stepped into the nest he wasn’t expecting to find so soon, with no attack. Where was the big one? 

The small, wireframe nest was hidden under a rose-coloured type of crystal, which protected it from the glass-shards with its wide leaves. There were two small, wiry balls inside, the little frames curled up defensively as they perceived him to be not their creator. But where was the carrier one? Deadlock looked around anxiously. The wirecat should have appeared by this time, defending her nest and young. Though small, the wirecats were ferocious and really, every mechanimal defended its young above everything else. 

But as Deadlock watched and awaited the carrier cat to appear he noticed some signs. The nest had some glass splinters fallen in that should have been cleared out, lest they damaged the little ones. The pups themselves were small and thin, barely moving, their hungry mewls quiet and small. Could it be that their carrier was hunted down by another predator and left the pups orphaned? Could he be that lucky? It appeared that he was.

Deadlock took out a few scraps of food from his subspace and carefully, slowly leaned into the nest, holding them where the little ones could smell them. His patience paid off when the little balls uncurled slowly and the weak little wirecats crawled towards the food they could smell. One was silvery white and black striped on its slender frame, its brother red and silver with comical little blue socks on its forepaws and a slightly broader composition. Small mouths opened to weak mewls and tiny fangs tore the scraps Deadlock held out. He patiently fed them until he ran out of the snack he took with him and gently petted a little helm while it licked his digits clean of energon. Its glossa funnily felt like sandpaper.

“If you come with me, you’ll have all the food you want to.”

Deadlock continued to pet the pups, by this time sure that their carrier was not around – it would have come back to defend its nest if it was able to. The little ones would deactivate alone if he left them, as they were too young to hunt for themselves.

“In fact I’m fairly sure you’ll be spoiled rotten if you do.”

The black and silver striped one was bolder than its brother and climbed into his palm, purring contentedly. It felt that the big creature holding him was not its carrier – but it gave food and pets and for a tiny, hungry, shivering little wirecat it was enough to consider him safe. Deadlock nudged the other one also onto his palm – he knew just who else in the tribe would love a little wirecat kitten. After Wing got his of course. They were almost small enough to fit in one palm and it meant they were young enough to tame and train, which was the reason why he wanted them. The wirecats were not usual pets in the tribe, since they couldn’t be trained to hunt with the mechs – they were lone hunters who never brought back their catch to the camp and an elder kitten would never stay with a mech.

Deadlock extricated himself from the thicket while holding the little balls of wire protectively to his chest, while he hacked the crystal boughs with the other. By the time he got out, despite of the paste in his seams, he was bleeding from a number of tiny cuts that ranged from the uncomfortable to near dangerous and he had to stop and stem some of them. He grimaced as he got out and hurried towards the camp – any mech or predator who’d want to follow him would have an easy job. 

Wing’s excited squeak when he gently took the tiny, shivering, silvery ball from his palm made the effort all worth. The jet had gained the tiny kitten’s trust in breems with food and petting and he was fawning over it with such enthusiasm Deadlock felt deeply satisfied as he was clearing his seams from the paste-shards mixture and watched Wing playing with a curious little wirecat. And really… the tiny kitten required mere scraps while young and would hunt for its food later, so it wasn’t a burden. 

Wing made sure he was properly rewarded later too and showed him how much he loved tiny little Silverfang already and Deadlock for getting it. 

Megatron looked incredibly sated and smug the next morning too, so Orion must have loved his pet as well as Wing. Functioning was looking good suddenly and Deadlock dared to hope again. He knew Wing might still want to go home after a vorn, but he still had time to win him over. It was a slow process, but he really wanted the jet and would do… Deadlock wasn’t afraid to admit it, but he’d do anything for him. Literally anything.

-o-o-o-

“We have a lead.” – Axe informed Dai Atlas – “Valence came back from Altihex where he met with a mech called Hound. He said that he had seen a map of the tribal routes once and could describe in broad lines where the Decepticon tribe wanders.”

The leader of the knights looked up and his glance brightened. He did feel responsible for Wing’s disappearance, since it was his idea that the young jet should take care of the nomad mech. 

“Excellent. Is it far? How much ground do we have to cover?”

“A few decaorns’ worth if we’re lucky. Hound also said that the tribe probably didn’t spend a long time around Crystal City, because it’s bad hunting grounds. So we have to hurry to catch up with them.”

“We take only fliers with us. It should be easy. Has he said anything else about the tribe?”

“Only that it’s a fairly big and strong one. We should be careful.”

Axe suddenly looked nervous as he continued.

“He also said that by this time our mech was probably… claimed by the nomad.”

Dai Atlas’s optics narrowed and his face became stony.

“He’ll regret that if he did.” – the big triplechangers paused – “If Skyhigh catches him first he might not survive it.”

”Best to keep this tidbit from him. It might not have happened but it would distress him greatly”.

“Agreed. But I want to take him with me. He’s got the sharpest optics among us.”

“And a compelling reason to find Wing… by the way, what shall you do if you find the tribe? An attack with only a few knights and a large, strong tribe could be… messy.”

“I don’t intend to attack. I intend to speak with them.”

Axe stared at Dai Atlas incredulously. 

“Speak? Do you think they’d be interested in talking?”

“This Hound mech also said that the nomads take more and more mechs from cities. This has to stop. They have to understand how it is for the mechs they kidnap. I understand they just want to live their lives as they’ve don always… but some rules should be universal. Consent for one thing.”

“We aren’t any authority over them. How would you make them stop this practice?”

“Hound also said that it is normal for the tribes and they don’t know that city-dwellers consider it rape. I intend to inform them of it.”

“It’s still just one tribe. There are dozens if not hundreds wandering around on Cybertron.”

“We have to start somewhere. If it’s a big and important tribe, they can spread the word.”

“They can still ignore it. We don’t have any dealings with them.”

“Axe… do you remember that we used to trade with some tribes? And that some Southern cities still do? Ignorance breeds fear. Misunderstandings. War. We don’t know anything about them and they don’t know the cities’ ways. It’s inevitable that any time we meet it’s fighting.”

“And you intend to change that.”

“I intend to spread some understanding in the belief that it will help. Knowledge is a great weapon that’s often underestimated.”

“I hope your optimism will get results.” – Axe paused – “And gets Wing back.”

“We’ll start out tomorrow. Let’s hope it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for Wing's creators, I could just never see Dai Atlas as one. They just don't have anything in common. Axe maybe, but I still felt better going with an OC for that.


	12. Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the best, but it's a stifling 34°C outside and I'm glad I can write... like at all. :-/

The nearly empty tent certainly changed a lot since Wing became its resident. Though he might become addicted to the soft nest of blankets instead of a hard berth, Wing was at spark a city mech and a more avid collector of items than Deadlock would ever be. He also got a lot of gifts and presents from Deadlock and various nomads lately. It resulted the number of chests and objects in the tent to grow until they hardly had enough space to recharge… or have even more… _fun_ activities. Megatron’s once huge-looking and unnecessarily big shelter was becoming more and more an example Deadlock would soon have to follow. He certainly didn’t expect this aspect of mated life beforehand… though he should have. 

And with the kitten taking up even more space, it making a chaos out of objects as it played – fortunately it was still small enough so actually gnawing their things was not yet a problem – their lack of space was fast becoming an urgent matter to solve. As soon as they made a semi-permanent camp in a good, defensible place Deadlock started working on it. He had been hoarding a supply of hides for the outside cover for awhile, but the inner structure needed to be constructed. Hightower and his mate promised him to do it as the tribe’s main constructors, but first he… they would need to collect the material. Explaining it to Wing took mere breems and the jet was glad to help in the job that also promised to be interesting. The kitten safely left with its brother under the gleeful optics of Orion, they set out to the nearby cliffs.

The mountains of Cybertron were in general not very high and neither very rugged – mostly just steadily rising ground and rocks that varied from stones to metallic boulders. Only in a few places the ground became more rugged, forming cliffs, canyons and steep-sided valleys and these of course had their own dangers. Wing watched the rising sides of the valley interestedly as they walked and when they grew over their helms the sudden, cold darkness of the shadow made him draw his armor tight to his protoform. It was like the whole atmosphere changed around them. The air darkened as the light waned and cold wind rushed out from the narrowing canyon, bringing shudders to him.

Wing instinctly drew closer to Deadlock, the calm alertness of the nomad feeling like safety. 

“Strange place.”

Deadlock smirked back, not fooled by the forced nonchalance of Wing’s tone.

“You don’t like it, right?”

“It feels… dangerous.”

“It is.” – Deadlock confirmed with a nod but his optics flickered with a sly wink – “But no more than the desert usually is.”

Wing blushed, obviously remembering his flippant words from the city and for once had no witty comeback.

“Look…” – Deadlock pointed to something that looked like a mall, black stake stuck into the ground – “That’s the kind we need. Just taller.”

The stake did look similar to the tent’s support structure, but Wing had always thought that they were fabricated. But then… he realized that the nomads had no industry, so that couldn’t be true. When they found a couple of taller rods, Deadlock grabbed one and pulled it – with all his strength he could barely tear it from the hard ground. He showed the bottom part of it to Wing and he saw thick energon sluggishly oozing from tubes that looked suspiciously like their own veins. Deadlock licked the droplets that stuck to his digits but made a face at their taste. Wing stared.

“What is it? A mechanimal?”

“No… its… steel-bamboo. It grows like crystals. Doesn’t move or eat like mechanimals.”

“I’ve never seen or heard of such a thing…”

“Bamboo is rare. I know only three places where it grows. But it makes very good tent support, better than other available materials.”

The slender rods were strong but incredibly flexible as Wing experimented with them. He could bend one to nearly half and it didn’t break and it was surprisingly lightweight. He could easily imagine the material made into weapons as well and Deadlock confirmed that sometimes spears were made of them. There were small, flattish pieces of metal on the stem that looked ridiculously like audial flaps or even antennae. Wing fingered one of them and it was even more flexible than the rod itself. If he made an effort, he could even take the small, regular nubs on the rod as optics… or some sort of a sensor anyhow.

“Are you sure these are not mechanimals?”

Deadlock continued to uproot the tall enough pieces they found, but left the shorter ones in place to grow more. He kept casting amused glances to the knight as he enjoyed discovering the bamboo but he also kept an optic around their surroundings.

“They are not. Animals move. Bamboo stays in one place.”

Wing picked at the tubelike root-things of the harvested rods and after a few breems Deadlock saw him covertly licking the energon from one of them. He grimaced to himself – the energon these plants drew from the ground was drinkable and if survival was in question he’d consume it – but no nomad said that it was good. But Wing surprised him again.

“It tastes good!”

Deadlock grimaced again. Trust a city-dweller to find the bland, flat, ground energon better that the rich, living taste of mechanimals.

“You won’t find me a competition for it.”

Wing laughed, really laughed and Deadlock immediately forgot about the taste of energon. He couldn’t help it. The jet held his attention all the time but when he laughed with him easily and felt comfortable in his company, among the nomads… then Deadlock dared to hope. 

 

-o-o-o-

“Haven’t seen them around for vorns.”

“A purple, pointed face? Nope, I can’t say I’ve ever seen such.”

“Decepticons? Used to come round here, yeah. But not lately.”

“Thank Primus they’re gone. They harassed our outposts long enough.”

“Last time I saw them was when they bought off my stock of high-grade. Never had a better business, I tell you! When? Umm… that was nine vorns ago.”

The reactions where the Decepticons should have been seen or heard of were all like that. City after city received them with suspicion at first, thinking them nomad spies, but even after the misunderstandings were cleared, they couldn’t help them. The places where the Decepticon tribe should have gone by according to that map denied seeing them for several vorns at least. The further South they flew the less optimistic the knights became of ever finding the tribe and Wing in the vast emptiness of the planet. 

“We might have to turn back and give up the chase.”

Axe remarked after they had to send Contrail back home with a mangled arm and Swiftwind for company; he got that while tangling with a ferocious predator on the ground. They had to land sometimes, even if it was just recharging, but they found the desert far more dangerous than the relatively calm neighborhood of Crystal City and their makeshift shelter barely adequate for protection. It left only Dai Atlas, himself and Skyhigh in their little group, as the first mech had gone back after merely an orn out – acid rain ate into his plating so much he couldn’t continue. Axe wouldn’t call their preparations inadequate, but they had certainly not been fully conscious of all the desert’s dangers.

“I don’t want to give it up yet.”

“Dai, we’ve been away for two decaorns. Two more will be gone before we get back to Crystal City. How much longer do you want to continue? The chances of running into some sort of a danger again grow all the time.”

“I want to check the whole route the tribe should be on. Even if we don’t find them, consider how many cities were warned about the nomads mate-napping habits?”

“Yeah, well, it was received so well in Tarn.”

Axe murmured and tried to forget the city which appeared to actually like the nomad tribes. Trade was a great incentive apparently and they only shrugged at the kidnapping warning. Axe suspected that it was not far from what their own habits dictated, but he refrained from asking further. Tarn was decidedly a… strange place, one he was glad to leave behind.

“The others were much more appreciative in learning it.”

“After they decided we didn’t come to, I don’t know, eat them?”

“Misunderstandings are expected. None of them knew any fliers only among the nomads.”

“But the last one… they thought we’re from Vos. So there is a flier city further South.”

“Maybe we should go there. From the air they can see much more than grounders, they might be able to tell us more.”

They flew on for a long time, the cities fewer and farther between and each stranger and more remote than the previous ones before the little group of knights reached actual high mountains. Cybertron as a rule had no real tall mountain ranges with rugged peaks and steep ravines – but there it was rising slowly in front of them as they flew, hiding the whole horizon like a great wall. That was when they noticed the fliers coming at them with weapons ready and hot. There were three of them coming at the knights, obviously a well-trained unit.

“Stop and land!” – a strong voice ordered in a broad frequency – “You are entering Vosian territory. Who are you and what’s your business?”

“We are knights from Crystal City. We look for a tribe called Decepticons, who kidnapped one of our mechs.”

“They haven’t come this way for vorns. Go back.”

“Do you know maybe where or how we can find them?”

Another one from the trine answered after his leader nodded to him.

“A friend of mine saw them near Iacon and they moved on… ummm, west maybe?”

“Iacon is northeast of us.” – Axe murmured as their glances met – “We’ve come completely the opposite way.”

The drooping wings of Dai Atlas and Skyhigh showed exactly how they felt. But the large knight collected himself fast.

“Then we go back.”

“They can be anywhere by now.”

“We can track them the same way we did so far. Asking cities as we pass them” – Skyhigh was agitated, his own wings fluttering – “I won’t give up the search. I will find Wing!”

“I didn’t mean to give up.” – Axe was diplomatic even as he played the devil’s advocate – “but here there are far more cities that can tell us where a tribe went. Back in the north there aren’t many.”

“We will do our best. Don’t worry, Skyhigh, I don’t intend to give up either.”

They flew back the way they came, spirits lower, but still hoping.

-o-o-o-

 

Wing was roused by loud shouts outside their new, bigger tent and grumbled. He was still not used to the nomads’ habit of rising with the first light, but mostly their noises woke him up far earlier than he felt comfortable. Deadlock was not in of course, he would be considered a lazy aft for getting up as late as Wing. The jet lazily petted the sleepily purring kitten as it curled against his warm plating and he let his processor boot up at its own pace. If the shouting had any importance to him, Deadlock would come back and tell him. Otherwise… nomads were often loud, close to shouting even if they weren’t angry. 

It turned out to be a sea, he learned a little later, the scouts all came back excited by it. Most of the tribe has only seen small acid lakes only and Wing none at all, so the actual, honest to Primus acid sea was a shock to many of them. It stretched all over the horizon and it looked so deceptively calm, clean and innocent even from above as he and some others flew over it – but it ate away the pieces of metal the younglings threw into it at a rate frightening to the adults as well. 

“A mech would deactivate in it within a breem, Knockout thinks. The acid’s far stronger than rain.”

“Probably that’s why there’s nothing in it.”

“Yeah. But it means we have to turn back.”

“Back where? Why?”

“The elders are worried. If a tribe attacks us, we could be backed up to the sea and that would be very bad.”

“We weren’t attacked for how long? Is it a real danger?”

“It’s always a danger.” – Deadlock was serious – “A tribe that considers itself invincible gets put down soon.”

Wing had to nod, it was just sensible, in its ruthless, nomadic, desert way. It sounded like Soundwave’s wisdom though, rather than Galvatron’s.

“Okay… so we go back the same way?”

Deadlock looked at him sharply, like reading his thoughts.

“You think of… going back, to your city?”

“Well. I promised you a vorn, but you promised me I could get a word to them if we can. If we go the same way a flier can reach the city easily.”

Wing wasn’t backing off of it either. He stared at Deadlock sharply but it surprised him to see how the shoulder pauldrons appeared to slump and his expression turned stony… and to be honest Wing felt bad for causing him to think that he’d leave and go home. He came to like the nomad warrior and even the tribe’s interesting, often strange, but always thrilling life. He found a few friends he would be loath to leave. The jet suddenly realized that if… when?... he went back home, he would miss all this. Especially Deadlock. Could he still leave at all? Just right now, he only thought of visiting Crystal City, not going back for good. 

Well, he had a few decaorns to think on it before they got back to those parts.

“But we might not go the same way.” – Deadlock continued – “There were news of a clan war and we don’t know the northern tribes well enough to be safe.”

“But your tribe is strong, right?”

“Our tribe, Wing. Our.” – Deadlock him as he cast a worried glance around while they returned to the new, bigger tent they now owned – “Yes, we’re strong, but clan wars disrupt the situation among tribes. It’s usually an alliance of several tribes who decide to take down a stronger one, who also might have allies. Tribal politics are a pain in the aft. The winners are likely to stay together for awhile and the losers are desperate to rebuild. Both are dangerous.”

“Then… why go back? Why not go around the sea?”

“Because the elders remembered _finally_ that the Rust Sea means bad hunting. All life avoids the sea as there’s a lot of rain on these parts.”

“Deadlock!”

It was Megatron’s deep-toned shout that made them turn from the conversation. The big mech stood between two tents near the camp’s center and waved him closer.

“Galvatron wants you now. He’s furious that you just dally around with your mate, now that he’s okay with the tribe. You’d better get your aft there fast.”

“Scouting?”

“Think so.”

Deadlock cast a worried glance to Wing. He was obviously unhappy that he had to leave, but Wing understood it. One had an obligation to one’s tribe… or city.

“Go. I’ll be fine. I’ll… stay.”

He could have left any time lately, Wing knew. Just take wing at night and no mech would or could stop him by now. He could even take what he needed to survive and found his way back to Crystal City. He didn’t have an excuse any more to stay with the nomads.

Only Deadlock. Who's just gone for who knows how long.


	13. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder: the events in Swords of Destiny and Troubled Sands run more or less parallel! :-)

Deadlock growled as he sped through the desert, every line of his frame, every flared plate and taut cable exuding his anger and frustration. He barely paid enough attention to his surroundings to avoid danger and notice possible others, his processor squirmed around Wing and his own worries about the jet… he couldn’t refuse Galvatron’s order, not since they acted it like Wing belonging to him and the tribe, but it still wasn’t very usual to separate newly mated couples so soon. And the closer he and the tribe got to Crystal City, the more he fretted about it. Things were going so well with the jet, he started to hope that Wing would stay with him, but the memories and nearness of his former home threatened every advance he’d made. And at this precarious time he had to leave the camp… Deadlock fumed silently as he sped in the desert.

He kicked up way too much dust, Deadlock knew, any mech with a working optic could see him coming from megamiles, but he couldn’t help it. The faster he combed the area, the faster he could get back to the tribe and Wing, his main concern on the jet, not on his task for the first time in his existence… the mostly white car swerved wildly to avoid the suddenly appearing, suspicious crack on his path, Deadlock rolled and transformed back to root mode while in the air, finally landing on his pedes.

“What the frag…?”

That jagged line was not there a klik ago, that Deadlock was sure of it as he froze. He was preoccupied, he would admit that much, but he wasn’t blind and not noticing something like that in the otherwise empty, flat desert was unlikely. But such cracks appearing were never a good sign, he remembered a bit too late. He should have driven on, got away as fast as he could instead of stopping... but it was too late now to run. Deadlock lifted one pede with painful slowness and set it down like the ground was made of glass. It might have been.

“Slag!”

Another crack broke the dusty surface, the jagged line running outward from under his right pede. This time he even heard the ominous creaking noise coming from below, accompanying the sharp clink. He tried to slide his pede without lifting it off the ground, but the crack followed him, its sound echoing faintly down below. Deadlock tried to calculate which way the cracks were spreading, where the underground tunnel went below his pedes. They were rarely very wide, he might have a chance of getting out of the danger zone if he was careful. 

A louder, almost innocent ping sounded and the crack closest to him suddenly spread away, breaking the crust into two large plates, one of which was starting to rise with a scratching, creaking noise. Deadlock took a sliding step away from the cracking plate, trying to hold onto his balance on the moving, shifting ground. Because it was moving by this time and the time for carefulness was over. The nomad took a last glance around trying to find a place nearby that looked more stable and jumped.

Where he started off from, the plates were already sinking, crumbling down into the unseen tunnel below, releasing puffs of dust into the air that looked like tiny sand-geysers. A several mechanometers wide area suddenly slumped down into the tunnel, the shallow cave-in going on in a line for as far as Deadlock could see. He almost took an invent of relief at escaping it when a sharp crack sounded under him again and the shifting ground-plates dumped him down into the underground tunnel. Deadlock yelped in a high tone and tried to grasp the sides of the moving plates, cursing as they shifted out of his grip one by one, dust thrown up by the collapse blinded him until he was just grasping without a clue and found nothing solid to hold onto.

Racking coughs shook his vents that he forgot to seal up in time and Deadlock, to his dismay, felt his whole lower half held fast by the ground plates that were still moving, shifting, crushing his pedes and slowly pressing his bent left arm into his own side. His right servo felt free and as the dust slowly settled, he could still see the light. Deadlock vented some more dust out with his breath of relief – at least he wasn’t fully entombed underground, unable to move, unable to escape, dying slowly in the unrelenting grip of the crust…

 _Focus! Must calm down and focus!_ Deadlock shook his helm and stayed motionless against every instinct screaming at him to try and claw his way out and he waited for the dust to fully settle. He must see his situation before acting again – the tunnel wouldn’t crumble any more on its own, but if he unsettled a larger plate carelessly, trying to climb out and it casually sheared him in half he could still die here. Deadlock took stock of his own frame while waiting. His legs appeared to be held fast down below, the left barely giving back any pings, so there was damage there. His torso had a little room to squirm, but his left arm was stuck– Deadlock didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he decided to curse some very creatively – his left elbow joint was pressed into to his own side-armour by the inexorable force of the ground movement, the plates so much mangled around each other that he couldn’t move any without damage.

As the dust settled, his situation was revealed in its disheartening details. The broken ground plates around him were so big and thick that he couldn’t move either with only one servo free. The dust on his left side was slowly coloured by his energon seeping out and he couldn’t feel the wound, much less reach it and pinch the broken line closed. Deadlock was fairly sure that underground it was the same with his left leg. His swords that he could have used to break the ground were naturally trapped underground and he couldn’t reach his subspace either for a weapon. He swept dust over the spreading energon by his good arm – he so didn’t need any predators smell the free energon and decide to get it from him.

As time went on with useless scrabbling and flailing at the plates locking him into place, he regained a little feeling in his legs – and the steady, slow flow of some liquid around them as the underground river slowly made its way around the caved-in ground and himself. He couldn’t push himself up, he had no such leverage down below in the fluid-soaked ground even if his legs weren’t damaged. Deadlock stilled and tried to think. The fluid – probably an underground oil stream - would, in time wash away most of the sediment that the cave-in brought down and the broken ground plates so far mostly held up by him and the dust would collapse into the tunnel for good, smashing him into so much mangled metal in the process. Great. He will have to escape before that happened. 

And before any predators found him and decided that he was a tasty evening meal. Deadlock glanced to the setting sun and growled. The dusk will bring out the night-cycle predators soon, far sooner than he would have to worry about falling into the tunnel. His right servo clawed at the ground to reach his subspace while he tried to strain his frame to bring it up by a little… he only needed a few inches, but he fought for those inches frantically while the sun calmly settled in front of him, like mocking him for his efforts, watching him struggle half stuck in the ground in the otherwise flat and empty desert. The lights were deep red and orange by the time he scraped his subspace open, breaking a few claws in the process and managed to maneuver a blaster out. 

Deadlock’s helm feel backwards as he laid the weapon in front of him, holding onto it with digits that nearly cramped from the effort and wheezed through his vents. The ground was as unmoving and solid around him as though it has never shifted like quicksand, never swallowed him up and never crushed him with its merciless metallic grip. Nothing moved in the deepening light of the dusk, nothing for as far as he could see. Turning was of course out of question. He was flexible as far as mech frames went, but with his torso mostly held fast, Deadlock could only turn his helm a little and it still left around half the world unseen behind him. The quiet of the desert was nearly complete, like a silencing bowl upturned over him, only the everpresent wind susurrated quietly at the edges of his hearing, shifting the dust over the rolling dunes. The light waned slowly, its colours fading into the deep, dark velvet of the night, the clouds were collecting at the edge of his vision, shading the twilight even darker – and that was when the sounds arose again. Distant yips and yelps echoed over the sand, scratchy growls and nearly whisper-quiet rustling travelled over the dunes and made Deadlock tense up.

He knew these noises, he has heard every one of them before on long and lonely nights watching over a town, a tribe or empty desert. He could put a name and description to each of them, he could kill the owner of these sounds, some with more effort than others, some more easily. But not like this, not while half immobilized and only one servo and a blaster to defend him with, his optics nearly at ground level, unable to see any danger until it got too close… struggling to get out was now out of question even if it would work. Most night-cycle mechanimals relied on motion sensors first and optic sensors only as a distant third behind smell. He could do nothing about his smell other than covering up the still seeping energon with dust, but by remaining frozen immobile he would let some of the hunting packs to pass him unnoticed. 

Not all, Deadlock knew. It was useless to hope that he could survive the night cycle without any of the hunters noticing him and so having to defend himself. At least the blaster had a full charge. A quick, little thought went for Wing, wondering what the jet was doing alone in the tribe… but Deadlock reminded himself that such thinking was what got him into trouble at the first place, made him preoccupied enough not to notice the crumbling ground and what it meant until too late. He forced all thoughts of Wing into the very back of his processor. He didn’t need to simply pass the time – he needed all his attention to…

Whoa! The flash of silver came unexpected and quietly from his right and Deadlock swung the blaster that way, shooting already as it went. The energy beam scorched some ground-plates, melted some sand, but no sound came from a wounded mechanimal and Deadock turned his helm frantically to catch his attacker. There it was again, the same fast flash of silver, a little higher this time, and the blaster swung with more precision now, the shot found its mark… and this time he heard the rasping hiss of pain from the creature, the faint glow of spilled energon and his beam followed its silvery form until it moved. 

Deadlock breathed a deep, dusty vent out. The silvery form was blackened now and it appeared to be losing its shape and oozing into the ground, like melted from the energy beam – and the nomad mech recognized his visitor at last. A quicksilver, a small, but fast lizard that mostly feasted on carrion, but sometimes it attacked if it judged the prey weak enough… and it made that mistake now. Deadlock snarled. He wasn’t dead yet! It would take more than a small scavenger snake to kill him even half buried and mostly immobilized! Anger cursed through his veins and helped to stay awake and attentive. If he could survive the night until the clouds came closer and the acid rain loosened the stuck plates somewhat so he could break one and get out… it was his only chance. Deadlock not hoped for a single klik for a rescue. There was nomech in the desert nearby within comm range and certainly none friendly enough who would free him. 

But as the night deepened and his field of vision shrunk to practically none and the ominous noises came ever closer, Deadlock’s anxiety grew. He wouldn’t see an attack now in time. He did have some motion sensors too, but they were a far cry from what some of the predators sported. Time and time again he tensed and tried to yerk around to an imagined attack; time and time again the blaster’s energy beam lit up the desert on a target that wasn’t there, just imagined; and Deadlock started to think that it would have been better perhaps to try and free himself while he could. If it was his fate to die here, at least he would be standing up to face it… but the ground still held him fast and his movements called some predators closer. 

A deep, low growl came from behind and Deadlock swung the blaster again, over his shoulder, aiming blindly towards the sound and faintly wished if he ever learned to pray. Whatever it was, it was big. More of a target, he tried to console himself while trying to determine its movement on sounds alone. The thing appeared to stalk him, like the cyberlion couldn’t decide what sort of a prey he was and Deadlock used its indecision to aim his blaster backwards, at the large predator even better. The nomad shut his optics off, relaxed and pictured the lion’s movement by the sounds his audials conveyed and the motion sensors. The blaster’s muzzle steadied on his shoulder as it followed the unseen attacker with more and more sureness.

Then the moment came that he was waiting for… the split nanoklik while the lion crouched to spring into action, when its large frame was unmoving and Deadlock didn’t hesitate. He pressed the trigger and kept the blaster firing, imagining the arc the lion would take as it jumped and following it with the weapon’s beam – if it could jump still, if the first shot didn’t find him, didn’t incapacitate him. But nothing fell on him, not a live predator, not a heavy corpse, not even a wounded lion – instead he heard the pained yowl of it still safely behind, the sound betraying him that the animal was wounded seriously enough so it wouldn’t be after him any more. It might be mortally wounded, in which case it would drag itself away, into its den to die there.

Deadlock snarled out a low curse and tried to convince his spark to beat a little slower before it careened out of its chamber. He was alone so he could admit to himself that he was more terrified than ever in his life. Showing his back to mortal danger – the cyberlion was a formidable predator even unencumbered and whole – took more out of his composure than he thought it would. Just barely calming down the sudden words spoken aloud in the quiet of the night cycle nearly made him jump out of his plating.

“Ya need any help there or comfortable stuck like that?”

Deadlock never swung the blaster around so fast in his entire existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I wrote the chapter, I had a completely naughty and nsfw idea with Deadlock stuck like that. And I wrote it out:  
> [the deleted scene](http://kitsummer.tumblr.com/post/121911751908/deleted-scene-from-swords-of-destiny)


	14. Deadlock is already having a rotten cycle and it can get worse

Deadlock swung the blaster around as fast as he could, but the stranger who spoke up was equally fast – and he won their little speed-contest.

“Whoa, there…!”

A pede stepped on the barrel of his blaster and stuck as he was, Deadlock simply didn’t have the leverage to yank it out from under the weight of his attacker. He cursed his bad luck and while he didn’t let the blaster go, the speedster stopped struggling. He was at the mercy of this mech, whoever he was… in the faint light of the rising first Moon Deadlock saw a fairly small mech crouching beside him, his own blaster firmly trained on the scout’s helm. 

“Okay…” – he croaked, angry with the situation, but unable to do much about it – “What do you want?”

In the desert manners dictated first to get to know the intentions of a stranger, not their designations and it most often involved physical struggles or contention of egos. But the smaller mech did neither, he just canted his helm to the side as he answered in a strange, accented Cybertronian.

“Ah have no intention of harming ya.”

“In that case let my blaster go.” – Deadlock retorted – “and be on your way.”

“Well, I shudda expected a bit more gratitude fer saving yer life.”

“What do you mean?”

The smaller mech shrugged and waved a servo towards the cyberlion’s carcass behind them.

“While Ah give ya points fer grazing its side with such a blind shot, it was mine that brought it down.”

Deadlock scowled. Though it was possible that it happened that way, it was still something a mech would say to extort gratitude. Which meant that the other needed something from him… but what? The rising light levels betrayed little else than the lack of bright colours on the smaller, compact frame… ad the lack of tattoos as well, he realized suddenly. Instead of answering the mech’s words he decided to confirm his guess.

“You’re not a nomad!”

“So what? Ah’m still holding the cards.”

“Holding the… what?”

The city-mech huffed, waved the confused question airily aside and continued.

“Ah have a proposition fer ya. Sumthing that helps both of us.”

“What do you want?”

Deadlock was suspicious. This mech sounded nothing like the city-mechs he met with or heard of. He sounded exactly like somemech who’d deceive him once he agreed to whatever the other would offer. But the nomad had little choice in the situation he was stuck in – literally and figuratively.

“Ah would help ya out of that hole ya dig yersef into – unless ya feel fine staying there?”

Deadlock snarled at the flippant tone.

“Do I look _fine_ to you?”

“Oh well… I dunno. You could’ve a lil’ companion down there, making you all hot an’ satisfied and… ya know.”

Deadlock spluttered, blinked several times and shook his helm. What the frag was this mech babbling about?

“Weeell, never heard of the _naughty_ tentacle-monster who lives underground and loves ta give a _pleasurable_ time fer mechs who visit its domain?”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???”

Deadlock shouted, tensed up and held his thighs together nervously. He still had no idea what the mech was talking about, but it sounded… worrying. No. There were no… _tentacle monsters_ , he never heard of such mechanimals in his whole function. The underground eels were bad enough, but this… no. Just. No.

“Ohkay… lets forget it.” – he heard the smirk in the other’s tone – “It’s just [a funny story Ah read somewhere](http://kitsummer.tumblr.com/post/121911751908/deleted-scene-from-swords-of-destiny). Still, if you wanna get out of there, Ah might be able to assist ya – for a lil’ help.”

Deadlock banished the previous sentences to his ‘utter nonsense’ folder, where he usually put Knockout’s romantic stories and Megatron’s occasional attempts at poetry and deleted the thread from his processor. He needed to focus on getting out, not being baffled by a crazy city-mech!

“What help?” – he asked suspiciously.

The visored mech pulled something out of his subspace and carelessly dangled it in front of Deadlock. 

“Ya know what this is?”

Deadlock stared. The faint moonlight around them was still not much, but the small object slowly took shape as he increased the sensitivity of his optics and focused on it. 

“Where did you get this?!?”

“It doesn’t matter. Can you use it?”

“You… you stole it from a tribe, right?”

Deadlock knew that his tone has just gone sharper and louder, but he couldn’t help it. Wasn’t his orn still rotten enough with that slagging hole he fell into and a cyberlion wanting to eat him and mad stories of… something? Stupid, idiot city-mech, why would he need to bring an angry tribe on his neck as well?

“If Ah did… so what?”

“You idiot! How far are they behind you?”

“Mah? Why? Fer this lil’ thing?”

“This little thing is what most tribes have ONLY ONE and keep it more secure than the food!”

“Ohhh… umm… didn’t know that…”

The mech suddenly straightened up and glanced around nervously. The silvery light of the first Moon painted the empty desert and their frames a uniform gray, the ominous colour of death making the place even more chilly and eerie. But nothing moved as far as they could see, only the silent clouds rolled overhead in the swift, cold wind. Nevertheless, they both shivered nervously and it wasn’t from the temperature.

“So, you do know how ta work it.”

Deadlock wasn’t sure – he had a hazy idea about the sextant, but hasn’t handled one for vorns – it was just not his job in the tribe and Shockwave was not in a habit of letting anymech use theirs for no reason. Still, he was sure he could work it out now, after a few tries, so he nodded.

“Maybe… but I’m not telling you anything before you free me from here. I need two servos to hold it anyhow.”

The small mech pursed his lips together and nodded after a klik.

“Ah’ll take that blaster though – Ah don’t need ya ta shoot me once Ah pull ya out.”

Deadlock scowled but let the grip go and looked after his weapon unhappily as the city mech kicked it farther away. The stranger pulled out a length of strong cable from his subspace and wound it around his torso, expertly tying it with a secure knot. 

“Designation is Jazz by tha way.”

Deadlock nodded and gripped the cable with his free servo as Jazz transformed and started to drive away, pulling the cable slowly. His answering tone was decidedly less chipper than the small mech’s.

“Deadlock.”

Jazz’s engine was roaring and the cable stretched taut as he tried to pull out the heavier nomad, wheels carving a rut into the desert sand while he fought to get a grip on a more solid, metallic surface underneath. Deadlock pushed himself up with his undamaged right leg and free servo, but it wasn’t much of a help. The large ground plates that held him fast creaked and groaned ominously. After a few kliks he heard one of them clink dangerously.

“Push now!”

He pushed, Jazz pulled and finally the large plate cracked, the pieces sliding and falling below into the place Deadlock’s frame just vacated. It wasn’t very comfortable to be yanked out viciously by the other car and dragged on the broken desert floor until Jazz stopped, but Deadlock was still grateful for it. The effort it required made it clear that he could have never escaped on his own.

“Owwwww…”

Jazz transformed back fast and picked up his blaster training it on him – he obviously didn’t trust Deadlock any more than the nomad trusted him – which was not very much in either direction. But Deadlock had bigger problems than a mistrusting city mech. His left leg was in a bad shape and the sword scabbard on that side was lost, probably buried deep underground. It took the brunt of his fall and the press of the ground-plate and the ankle joint was mangled open and oozing energon still. The fast pullout aggravated the wound even more. 

“That looks bad, mech. Ya have anything ta stem the energon?”

Deadlock nodded. Any nomad would have something for smaller wounds and he pulled out the patches and a crystal from his kit. Jazz looked on interestedly as he ground the crystal roughly, sprinkled it onto the rim of the open wound – hissed as it stung like Pit – and covered it with the appropriate patch, pressing down on it firmly onto the wound. The crystal dust heated up the metallic patch as they touched and quickly sealed the edges, stopping the energon flow.

“Wow. Didn’t know that trick.”

Deadlock just grunted. Their agreement didn’t include a crash course in first aid, so he put away his kit and tried to stand. Jazz stood back a bit after it was obvious that the nomad didn’t want his help and watched as he stood slowly and carefully put his weight on the mangled leg. Hissing and murmuring new curses as the damaged joint creaked Deadlock stood and found his balance. He would be slow as slag on the leg and transforming would be Pit-damned painful, but he could move. His first goal must be back to the tribe so the healer could have a look at his ankle… Deadlock looked up. Unless the city mech had a different plan… with the blaster and his damaged leg even the smaller mech could force him.

“So… what is it you want to exactly?”

“Teach me how ta use this thing. Stay with meh until Ah know you don’t tell me gibberish and Ah’m on mah way home… Ah was going ta tell ya to help me hunt, but seeing that leg… Ah hope we have enough as it is now.”

Deadlock snarled at him and Jazz lifted the blaster hurriedly.

“I won’t go with you anywhere! I show you how to navigate, but get wherever you want to alone!”

Deadlock definitely didn’t want to be around when the tribe caught up with the city mech who stole the sextant from them. Jazz didn’t look happy about it, but if he thought he could keep Deadlock with him on a leash he was very much mistaken!

“Okay… show me then.”

Deadlock took the offered tool and tried to remember which stars he would have to find at this time of the dark cycle. He really wasn’t very proficient in this… and Jazz’s sharp attention was downright distracting. With all their optics glued to the sextant it wasn’t surprising that they got both startled when a calm, authoritative voice spoke up suddenly.

“I must insist Jazz, that you return that to me.”

Deadlock turned fast, but Jazz was even faster. He snatched the sextant out of the nomad’s servo and swung the blaster towards the new arrival. Deadlock crashed on the ground from the push and loss of his equilibrium and was more than a little exasperated. Any more events happening during this cycle and he would be officially pissed off. The newcomer was larger than Jazz and his frame clearly visible in the strengthening light. Standing ramrod straight with legs planted slightly apart, the blaster firmly held in his servos, covering both of them and the clear silhouette of a perfect V framing his helm – a Praxian. Deadlock sighed. He never met a Praxian before, but heard plenty about them – and not the best rumours. 

“Ah won’t go back to yer farce of a _courting_!”

Jazz nearly spat the words and Deadlock lifted a brow plate. It seemed the city mech had a similar experience than himself – though Praxians weren’t rumoured of kidnapping mates, but apparently that wasn’t quite true. The black and white Praxian stood straight and unmoving, but his tone was a bit more… _softer? regretful?_... than before.

“I won’t insist that you return with me, Jazz; it appears that offering you this chance was a mistake. But the sextant belongs to the tribe. I must have it back.”

From their tone and looks, Deadlock saw quite clearly that these two had a history. Or a relationship. Or… something. But it wasn’t his problem. Using their preoccupation with each other, he started to inch away from them in the direction of his own blaster, lying forgotten on the hard ground. But the rumoured sensitivity of Praxian sensor wings were apparently true – after only a mechanometer the chevroned helm turned sharply towards him, followed by the weapon’s muzzle. Deadlock froze and cursed again anew. He was fast approaching his vocabulary limits in respect of curses and forced to invent new ones on the spot. 

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“None of your concern, _Praxian_.” – he put as much disdain into his voice as he was capable of.

“Your presence here is a concern to me… _Decepticon_!” – the Praxian’s tone was drier than the desert in answer. 

“Ahh… so ya two know each other then?” – Jazz’s cheerful tone cut the tension somewhat – “maybe Ah should leave you ta your business now…?”

The barrel was turned back half a degree and Jazz’s smile become forced.

“All right, all right… sheeesh, so stiff ‘bout this lil' thing…”

Jazz carefully laid the sextant to the ground and stepped back from it. He lifted both servos, both showing them empty and placating the cold and stiff Praxian. 

“How ‘bout we all peacefully go on our separate ways now?

“What are you doing here, Decepticon? Is your tribe nearby?”

Deadlock’s optics narrowed. The Praxian sounded almost… nervous? He suddenly remembered something he heard a few vorns ago, something concerning the Praxian tribe… tribal diplomacy was not his forte, but if he remembered well, there used to be talk about an alliance in which Galvatron declined to take part, to take down the Praxians… but this young mech was definitely not their chieftain of old… maybe the clans were successful and the sensor-winged tribe was defeated, chased away from their paths, forced to elect a new leader? It’d explain why they were around here, far away from their preferred hunting grounds. And in that case they would be desperate to know where the other large tribes roamed. 

“No, we are not here. Only myself. I’m a scout. Long range. If you let me go we can both go our ways and our tribes can avoid each other.”

“Pit, mech, you still owe me ta help me out of this place!”

Jazz’s tone and gestures were getting desperate. Deadlock almost – _almost!_ – felt pity for the city-mech caught in the desert, caught by amorous Praxians, escaped and lost… but then he escaped from the Praxians, so he was no weakling city-dweller. He should be able to survive in the desert and, well, Deadlock could point him in the right direction and send him on his way. Even though the Praxian chieftain looked like he would rather gather up the smaller mech and take him back to his tent. Deadlock could definitely relate to that. What would he do if Wing declared the courting ended and his answer a firm no? Could he watch the jet walk… well, fly away? Could he let Wing go and _not_ follow him?

But the problems of the two mechs were still not his to solve or even to ponder on. Deadlock stood carefully, nodded to the Praxian who looked ready to turn around and leave them alone, another to Jazz, who looked indecisive for a klik staring after the black and white frame, but took a step towards Deadlock…

… when first the elegantly sweeping sensor-wings, then stubby audial horns and lastly Deadlock’s own flares pricked up to faint engine noise coming from above, hidden in the clouds. Flier… or fliers. But who could they be? Deadlock felt like cursing again. This dark cycle was already far more than he’d bargained for. He desperately wished to be among the warm blankets in his tent with Wing cuddling to him and murmuring in his sleep. He wanted it all to be a particularly bad dream. 

Unfortunately it wasn’t.

From the look of it, the Praxian was equally unhappy to hear the flier engines deepening in pitch as they flew lower. Jazz was wary but listening to it as well while snatching up his weapon again. It was unlikely that they missed the three of them in the empty desert, fliers had far more sensors than visible light optics. Prowl picked up his blaster too, Jazz following his example, while Deadlock, bereft of a blaster, just wished it to be Wing. Please Prmus, be it Wing, bored among the tribe and coming after him. Or Megatron, flying this way for whatever reason. He could handle that. He wasn’t sure about anymech else. 

The shade sweeping low to land was certainly bigger than Wing and Deadlock groaned. As it transformed to land and an almost as big frame followed him he saw both of his impromptu companions tense and train their weapons on the newcomers. In a way it appeared to be the recurring theme of the cycle. 

“We mean no harm!” – a deep voice called out as soon as he landed and Deadlock had a Bad Feeling – “We’re no enemies of anymech. We seek knowledge of…”

Deadlock was shifting quietly away, wishing for the clouds and morning fog to come lower and hide him. Or himself finding his blaster. Swords would not help him now. He knew that tone. He knew whom it belonged to and it meant no good news for him. Unfortunately Dai Atlas was also quick on the uptake and identified the mechs around them fast. Red optics smoldered and his wings rose angrily.

“You…?”

Axe behind was covering the Praxian and Jazz, but Deadlock was neither far enough nor safe enough. Dai Atlas hasn’t finished his exclamation when from the side, where a third shape landed unseen a shot came and the beam burned into his already damaged leg. Slag! Deadlock fell again and barely managed to roll from the energy beam that followed him. Where in the nether Pit was his blaster that Jazz kicked away?!?

“Skyhigh! Stop it!”

“This slagger stole Wing and raped him! Where’s he???”

Deadlock couldn’t stand up, his left leg was useless now. He scooted away, but the flier was faster and was on him in kliks before the nomad could draw his remaining sword. He wasn’t pulling his punches either. Deadlock could do little else than deflect some of the hits before he saw the even bigger frames of Dai Atlas and Axe wrestling the hissing-cursing-spitting flier off of him. He was still bleeding from a number of new cuts by the time they were safely apart. In the background Deadlock noticed the smugly smirking Jazz, who looked like enjoying the spectacle and the Praxian who looked debating whether he should leave or stay.

“Skyhigh, that’s enough! We came for answers, not… this! Deadlock _will_ tell where Wing is, but this behaviour was totally inappropriate!”

Great, now they all looked at him like he was a nasty bug in their precious city. Deadlock had enough.

“Wing is with the tribe and he FRAGGING CHOSE TO BE THERE, TO STAY WITH ME!”

His shout rolled away in the suddenly quiet desert, touching the still figures standing around and reverberating through them. The fliers stood like a group of statues, wings frozen and mouths gaping at him in clear disbelief. Even the angry one, Skyhigh was motionless in Axe’s grip for a klik and the great sword’s gem flashed silently on his back. Jazz lifted a brow-plate and stole a glance to Prowl, who suddenly looked interested.

“Ah believe we see another case of a kidnapped mech, his worried family and his amorous nomad mate?” - Jazz quipped and the somewhat forced humor of his utterance broke the standstill.

“NO! YOU LIE!” – Skyhigh tried to break free of Axe’s grasp but the black mech was stronger despite of his own shock – “FILTHY LIAR!”

“I must admit it’s hard to believe that Wing would choose this way.” - Dai Atlas murmured, casting a disapproving glance at Skyhigh, who looked a little contrite and then turned to the heavily venting Deadlock who was still sprawled on the ground, glowering and snarling at the knights – “I require proof of this. From Wing’s own vocalizer, no less.”

“Well, he still owes me help ta get home, ta Protihex and Ah call dibs.”

Dai Atlas’s attention turned towards Jazz and he took in the mech’s appearance.

“You are not from a tribe then? I can offer you help in getting home, should you wish so.”

“Nah, Ah’m Jazz from Protihex. Presently on the run from them Praxian mechs who tried ta do the same as this Deadlock with your mech. Ah guess.”

Prowl stepped forward and stiffly nodded to Dai Atlas. The Praxian was clearly out of his depth in the ever growing company of mechs, his youth and inexperience coming out strongly. But he stood his ground against the much larger mechs whose authoritative air dominated the scene. In the stronger light of the rising second Moon the loose circle of mechs were now clearly visible to each other.

“I have made a mistake of offering Jazz a place in our tribe, as a mate to one of our warriors. After his escape I gave up that idea and now I only want back what is ours and he has taken.”

Skyhigh wasn’t interested in the other story though. He shrieked loud again and struggled to get out of Axe’s grip.

“Why would Wing choose a crude nomad like you? You have raped him! You’re a filthy barbarian! Maybe you just took him and killed him and now want another mech for your sick desires!”

Deadlock growled and even Prowl looked angry at the insults and the clear contempt in the flier’s tone. Jazz looked shocked too.

“Hey, mech, Ah never seen him before! We’ve just met here. Who’s this Wing ta ya you’re so angry about him?”

“Wing is Skyhigh’s only creation. And Deadlock did kidnap him from our city.” – Dai Axe too was trying to silence the still cursing flier – “Skyhigh, this is not helping! I understand your anger, but insults won’t lead anywhere. Behave like a knight or…”

“I have taken Wing with me, true.” – Deadlock snarled, showing his fangs, though from his half-scrapped posture on the ground it wasn’t a truly impressive snarl and roared back at them – “AND FOR YOUR INFORMATION, I HAVE ASKED WING TO STAY WITH ME AND HE SAID YES!

Okay, he was stretching the truth a little bit, but not lying outright. Just omitting a little bit… but the suspicious glances convinced him to be as honest as possible. They would confirm it from Wing anyhow and if he was found lying…

“Umm, I asked him to stay for a vorn, to give me a chance for courting. But he said yes and he’s waiting with the tribe for me to return.”

Dai Atlas lifted a massive brow and looked skeptical. Axe too was less than completely convinced, while Skyhigh went back to spitting mad. Neither of them saw a quiet Praxian look up with a suddenly thoughtful expression or the glance he cast at Jazz, who was the only one openly enjoying the rare spectacle.

“We still must see Wing to believe that. I won’t leave unless I spoke to him.”

“Well, he’s not here and the tribe won’t welcome you, especially with a mech like him, calling us names and trying to kill me!”

Deadlock pointed at the enraged flier. Skyhigh was a tiny bit calmer now, not the least because he realized that his strength could not compete with Axe’s and Dai Atlas’s stormy disapproval was sobering him up too. But it was still obvious that he would have preferred to tear Deadlock to shreds. 

“Skyhigh will calm down or go home.”

“What? No! I must see how’s Wing!”

“In that case you will have to calm down!”

“You’re not helping your case.” – Axe shook the flier in his servos a little – “I wouldn’t have believed a nomad could keep his composure better than a Knight, Skyhigh. Collect yourself. Center your being. Contain your emotions. Listen to your Sword!”

Deadlock was secretly fascinated by the brief display. It was like what Wing did a few times and he was marvelling at the speed by which the formerly madly hissing flier suddenly turned limp and calm, the angry flickers disappearing from his field as the Sword’s gem flashed angrily. 

“I will leave now.” – Prowl’s voice broke the strange tableau in the hard, predawn light – “Jazz, if you trust me to go with you for a little more, I can point you the right direction towards Protihex.”

Jazz’s glance was not fully trusting, but he nodded after a little hesitation and they left Deadlock alone with the Knights.

And the night cycle wasn’t even over.


	15. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I have to apologize for such a long delays in updating. I was stuck on the talk of Dai Atlas and Galvatron and it just never came out well. But finally, I managed to create something that seems to work. The last chapter after this should be much easier, because I knew what I intended for the ending from the very beginning of the fic.

The air in the Decepticon camp was tenser than ever before. Every single mech gathered around the central clearing, not a single one of them wanting to miss what was being said. All the elders, all the younglings, even the carriers who carried their rarely seen sparklings in soft pelts with them and naturally every warrior was sitting or standing in a circle around the Chief and their… guests. Guests are a rare thing in nomad camps. Most tribes could barely stand each other and even when they met, even the rare celebrations among tribes were done in neutral grounds. And as for city-mechs… not even the elders remembered anymech from any city being in the tribe-camp, though there were stories, very old legends of some trading done with an occasional city. But those were decavorns old stories, barely half-believed by the present generation of tribe-members. City mechs were generally sneered, considered weak, and trade with them, letting them into the camp unimaginable.

But now… three mechs sat in the circle of the chief and his elders, three mechs who were visibly not nomads. One of them nearly towered over Galvatron, who obviously didn’t like it at all and the other two were no small mechs either. They had swords with them, swords with queer gems flashing in the hilts, swords like the one Wing carried, weapons that they looked to be perfectly able to wield if needed. They didn’t look weak, cowardly city-mechs, that much was clear for all the onlookers. And they came after the tribe without fear, for their kin, something nearly unheard of even for other tribes.

In the middle of the circle Deadlock stood, gesticulating as he described what happened to him, telling his story in detail from the very beginning for the sake of the city mechs. It was a complex and long story and though most of the tribe have heard some of it, the whole thing was still interesting enough for them all to listen to it. And though Deadlock was not usually a great speaker, this time his performance took them with it – he was obviously speaking with plenty of emotions behind his words and the tribe thoroughly enjoyed the well-told story for its own sake too. Wing sat in the front line of the circle too, beside his kin whom he had had a tearful reunion and a lot of impassionate talk – but he was now smiling at Deadlock, encouraging him silently to describe all the events as they happened. 

Dai Atlas was listening intently to the nomad speaking, his only outward reaction some slight scowls at some points, but one of his companions, a flier appeared much more passionate, having had to be held back a number of times. Galvatron listened with a frown on his brow and a thunderous expression – he didn’t like the idea of allowing strangers into the camp, didn’t quite agree with his own advisors, even Soundwave to let them speak, to let them parley and only acquiesced to it when his own creation and heir too took the newcomers’ side, advocating to listen to what they had to say. Naturally, Megatron was sitting in the circle too with his mate by his side, thoughtfully listening to the story he among them knew the best. Lately he started to pay a lot more attention to the tribe’s decisions and Galvatron gladly involved him in it, naming him advisor and official heir.

After nearly a joor of speaking, Deadlock was nearing the end of the tale, the part nomech in the tribe heard yet. Megatron glanced to his Sire as the Praxians’ fate was described and Galvatron hummed back – it was a major event in the Southern hemisphere, possibly even concerning their own inter-tribal politics and wanderings in the future. In short it was interesting news Deadlock gathered, even aside from his own situation that he brought in front of the tribe. Which had its own future bearings to them if what he was alluding to would come to reality.

“Nothing else happened on the way back.” – he concluded, winding down from his passionate speech – “Dai Atlas requested to speak to the tribe and the Chieftain and so here he is.”

Galvatron nodded and Deadlock sat down beside Wing, suddenly feeling exhausted and even bewildered by his own passion and the story he delivered and which drew appreciative murmurs, even a few claps of applause – nomads have always loved a great story even for its own sake. Wing smiled at him and gripped his servo, his whisper not carrying beyond them, but warmed the nomad none the less.

“You did great!”

The tribe Chieftain stood slowly and stepped into the circle. He turned around, still frowning glance carried around the circle and the tribe behind them. 

“I heard you, Deadlock. You brought important news and… problems as well.” – his nod towards the scout conveyed that he was not angry, but Deadlock still swallowed uneasily.

“I will now hear what the city-leader has to say.”

Galvatron’s tone was neither welcoming, nor friendly, but Megatron still nodded, pleased with his restraint. He and Soundwave knew that the Chieftain’s first reaction was to kill their ‘guests’ and it took some convincing to let their city visitors speak their part and make decisions afterwards. It would be a great opportunity to have ties, however loose with a city. It would mean trading for items, machinery nearly impossible to get in any other way, it would mean secure hunting grounds and even some diplomatic leverage they might need if the Southern tribes formed a lasting coalition. Several tribes working in concert could obliterate even a strong one as the Praxians’ fate amply proved. No nomad was truly safe in the desert, but the relatively equal strength of the tribes ensured a balance of power for centivorns. If it was upended, if the power-lines shifted in the desert sands, the Decepticon tribe might benefit from a strong city’s friendship and backing.

Dai Atlas stood and stepped into the circle like all the speakers before him. He showed no unease, no fear and no hesitation – and for that many of the nomads watching murmured appreciatingly. The city-leader looked big, strong and perfectly capable to wield his weapon, not afraid to speak in the middle of an inimical tribe. It commanded respect, however grudgingly from some. 

He was a politician too, many have realized soon as he started to speak. He praised the tribe and assured them many times that his city at least has never wanted to take away hunting grounds from the nomads, therefore having no quarrel, no point of contention with them. He spoke of their own warrior roots and sword-training, which drew nods and raised brows from the tribe, along with some whispered conversations in the back lines and a slightly diminished scowl from Galvatron too. The chieftain was obviously measuring up the city-leader, his counterpart as a possible opponent… whether for a battle or sparring, nomech was sure yet.

“Even if we never meet again, I want to state one thing that caused a lot of misunderstandings between our mechs.” – Dai Atlas shifted his speech towards more serious matters, turning to nod towards Deadlock and Wing.

“Mechs in the city and nomads of the tribes have different traditions of choosing a mate… and define consent differently too. It is not my place to say what a tribe should or should not do…” – he nodded towards Galvatron deferentially – “…but even if the tribes keep kidnapping mates, you must know what it means to the mechs you kidnap.”

Dai Atlas looked straight at Orion, who dipped his helm and drew a shaky invent. Megatron scowled, nearly growled, but he spoke up suddenly, out of turn, ignoring the disapproving grunt from Galvatron.

“We do know now. We worked it out.”

The Knight nodded, acknowledging the interruption and its meaning but continued to speak.

“It may have worked out in your case… but would it not be better to have mates who are really willing, not just resigned to their fate?”

There was an increasing murmur from the tribe, mechs discussing, arguing, contesting the allusions, some grudgingly conceding the point – in every tribe, the Decepticons included there were the sad tales too, when mate-napping didn’t work out, when a romance turned into a drama, sometimes into a tragedy. Every mech heard some of those, or knew mechs involved in such cases or had a great-great-great creator who was such a mech. They all knew life was sometimes harsh, sometimes bad and occasionally tragic.

“What if it was YOU, any of you kidnapped and forced into a tent you don’t want, to a mech you cannot grow to like?”

Even louder murmurings. Some mechs glanced at Turmoil, these vorns a lot more restrained than before but many tribesmechs have had less than stellar experiences with his aggressive forcefulness. He had kidnapped one too many mechs to be his mates and his last one, from another tribe proved to be too much for him to handle. Though exact events never came to light, there were several serious fights in his tent that the tribe heard and it appeared that his mates, working together won those. Since then, Turmoil was a lot more subdued, a lot less loud and aggressive – and many nomads gossiped smirking that his mates now held the reins in that tent. Still, the notion Dai Atlas asked from them struck a chord with many in the tribe. 

“I know that you’re familiar of the idea of courting your desired mates. Would it be so hard to do it **before** the kidnapping, to see if they are compatible and willing? Would it be so bad if your mates could visit their former family and friends – and come back because they choose to be with you?”

Megatron gathered his mate to him and whispered something into his audial that caused the smaller mech stare at him wide-opticked, with a smile slowly spreading on his face. He nodded and his smile was pure joy now without the sadness so often colouring it and embraced Megatron back with clear happiness. Deadlock glanced at them and his gruff face softened for a klik, nudging Wing to see it as well.

“Though I am willing to negotiate further should you wish to do so – it was what I truly wanted to say to you.” – Dai Atlas knew that he shouldn’t expect the tribe to change its ways overnight. He had sowed some seeds and he would be perfectly happy to see if… when they grew – but he didn’t expect fruits so soon. – “Other than this we wish to speak with Wing and Deadlock on a personal matter that does not have to involve tribal or city policy. If the Chief allows this.”

Dai Atlas nodded to Galvatron again, who grunted in answer, swept his calm glance around the tribe once more, noting the murmurs, the background arguments, the gestures, seeing that his words at the very least took root in some. He noted Galvatron’s heir embracing his city-born mate, knew it from Wing that the mech might be an ally in the tribe, considering his own situation, and nodded to him specifically before withdrawing to sit beside Axe. 

Galvatron stood again, but remained at his place.

“Is there any who wants to add their opinion?”

Soundwave shook his helm, electing to remain silent. After a few kliks of silence an elderly-looking mech stood and shuffled forward with creaking joints.

“Steel Axle.” – Galvatron gave him the spot in the circle.

“I have heard Deadlock and I have listened to what the city-leader said. I agree that things are not perfect. But we have always done things in this way, it is our way! Should we let a city mech tell us how to live our lives? I say NO! The mates we took have always adjusted in time.”

The old mech looked hard at Orion as well and Galvatron’s own mate. Neither looked happy, but they didn’t speak up either to refute the elder’s words. The discussions in the background turned to a harsher note and some of the other elders sitting in the circle nodded agreeing. Apparently Steel Axle was their spokesmech, voicing their opinion. Soundwave was careful not to be included among them, despite of not wanting to speak up.

“We don’t need the city mechs! If they don’t like our ways, I say do not take them as mates and the problem is solved!”

Dai Atlas sighed. He knew it was a possible solution and could work too if the tribes stuck to the decision. But he also knew that it would mean the tribe and the cities staying separate, not knowing each other, developing separately – and inevitably troubles would stem from it again. But from what he saw and heard, the Elder’s opinion was a popular one in the tribe. If they decided on this, Wing’s situation would get suddenly much more difficult… once again, Axe had to hold Skyhigh back again, who apparently worked that out himself too.

But when the Elder sat, Megatron jumped to his pedes, not even waiting for his Sire to call for added opinions. From how the warriors of the tribe looked at him, Dai Atlas started to perceive that he very much represented the opinion of the younger generation. He could only hope that it would be enough to change to tide…

“Respected Elders, I say that just because we did one thing in a specific way forever, it can still be wrong and changed accordingly. Like the way we changed covering tents with forged plates instead of flimsy mechanimal pelts, just a few generations ago – can anymech say the old, windy tents that leaked in rain all the time were better? Are our tents worse now just for being held up by steel bamboo instead of crystal tree-trunks that we can barely find any more?” – a fairly loud agreeing roar rose from the tribe and Megatron paused for a klik, nodding to them. In the harsh desert a good tent that did not leak and let no wind or dust in was more than just comfort – it was quite often literally a matter of life and death. 

“I think they all say it is not so. Change is not bad. Change for the better is definitely not bad! To have happy mates – or to become happy mates to one is something I cannot call a bad change. What the city-leader said is true. We have always kidnapped our mates and took their resignation as consent. I have done so too. But this can be… have to be done differently. We understand now that city mechs consider it rape.”

A truly loud roar rose from the tribe after a klik of frozen silence. Many who knew Orion or heard about him realized it, but spoken starkly aloud, without softening or paraphrasing still caused them to face an uncomfortable truth suddenly.

“NO!”

“It’s not true!”

“It’s not like that!”

“We don’t!”

Megatron waited a few kliks and then slashed his servo in the air, silencing the mechs more or less and continued.

“Yes, for them it is rape. I have learned it myself but Dai Atlas confirmed it. Whether we like it or not, this is how they see it.”

Dai Atlas nodded, satisfied. Whatever they would achieve after this or not, the tribe cannot unlearn what they have heard now. From one of their own too, which made all the difference. Actual changes now could come faster or slower… but they would come inevitably and hopefully without any more personal tragedies.

“I say that not kidnapping city mechs as mates is just one step. We should change more. That is all I wanted to say.”

Megatron finished his speech as suddenly as he started it and the circle was suddenly draped into silence. No mech stepped forward to offer their opinion for nearly a breem. Only when Galvatron started to stand up again did one small, lithe form step into the middle of the circle.

“You all know me. I have come from a city – or I should say I was taken from a city against my will. I am a full member of the tribe now and a mate of Megatron.” - Orion smiled at him slightly and continued – “I have adjusted and learned the ways of the desert. But… it wasn’t easy and how it all began has put a strain in our bonding – a strain that took a long time to smooth out. Now… now I can say that I can love him without fear. But kidnapping, forcing another… why does a relationship have to start on this low note? Would it not be better to know the mech you want for a mate, to ask them and court them before you take them to your tent? Kidnapping doesn’t prove the strength of a mech – it proves only his will.”

This time the mates and carriers who nodded and murmured more, understanding what he was trying to express. Orion sighed and continued when the noise once again lessened servos clasped imploringly.

“I wish you all get a loving and good mate and be a good provider for your mates. Believe me… it goes much smoother if it is truly consensual. Kidnapping will never be that.”

Orion scurried back into the circle where Megatron drew him down to sitting position, their low whispering impossible to understand in the murmur of the tribe. Both their words had a serious impact on the nomads in various ways and Dai Atlas saw that it included even the chieftain who stood again and took the place of speech in the middle with a thoughtful expression that was a definite improvement from the earlier scowling and growling.

“I have heard all who’d speak on this matter. I will think on it. In the meanwhile, the city-mechs may make their tent on the edge of the camp and have my permission to speak with any members of the tribe for five orns – or as long as we do not have to move before that. I will share our food with them now.”

He waved Hardlight forward, who gave a small bowl to each of the visitors, containing a few bites of mechanimal flesh. Lastly he passed one to Galvatron himself, who wasted no time scooping out the bites and lifted them to his mouth. The guests with visible hesitation followed his example, Skyhigh straining not to purge his tanks on the spot. Soundwave solemnly intoned as they bit into the morsels.

“Sharing food, sharing protection. Guest you are, coming and going in peace.”

“So be it.”

Dai Atlas swallowed his without any visible reaction, though those close to him could feel the revulsion in his field. Eating treats and candy has not prepared them for the dripping, torn, obviously mechanimal-derived chunk, but peace would be worth the little disgust. Axe and Skyhigh couldn’t quite hide their own reactions, but the nomads still applauded them and only some of them snickered at the discomfort of the city mechs.

As the circle dissolved and the nomads slowly disappeared in the camp, to their duties and their little circles of friends to discuss things once again, the city mechs stood and withdrew to the place they got for putting up their shelter. Deadlock nudged Wing to go with them, which the jet took gratefully, hesitating only for a little before leaving his mate and joining his kin. 

“Come with us.” - Megatron called out to the scout – “Now we have to make my Sire listen.”

Deadlock was a little surprised when Megatron started towards Galvatron’s tent, but he followed his friends. He wasn’t in there like… ever before, and the huge tent with its many decorations, most of them weapons or trophies was a little intimidating. Megatron of course was far more sure of himself. Soundwave was the last to slip in silently and the first to sit, while Galvatron acknowledged the visitors.

“Son.”

“Sire.”

“Sit. All of you. So what do you want now? Steel Axle is right, we promise the city-mechs not to kidnap any of them and the problem settled.”

Hardlight has poked his mate’s shoulder none too gently as he put bowls of food in front of them. Galvatron frowned up at him, but nodded quickly at the disapproving gaze.

“Okay, okay. I promised to listen!”

Megatron took his bowl, swallowed his smirk at his creators' antics and started to speak.

“If the Southern tribes made a pact, they can be dangerous to us too in the future. The Praxians were strong, just like us. If they could be beaten, then the alliance is dangerous. We could use the backing of a strong city and they make no demands on us other than we do not attack them.”

Soundwave nodded curtly. It was common sense. Galvatron looked thoughtful.

“Would you trust a city?”

“These might be different than others we met.” – Deadlock spoke up – “I lived there for decaorns and they think like warriors. They have honour. Once they agree to it… yes, I would trust them.”

“And it’s not like we have to make a treaty with them right now. We can agree to keep in touch. Keep talking. Some trade until we know them better. There are mechs who can come and go between us and trusted by both sides.”

Soundwave unsubtly pointed to Deadlock who struggled not to show his embarrassment.

“Yeah, I… would… could… go to Crystal City… with Wing.”

“I guess Swindle would love to have the opportunity to acquire city-items for trade.”

“Umm… is he the best idea…? We want them to think that we have honour too, right? Swindle wouldn’t be my first choice for… that.”

Galvatron’s lips drew to a smirk and the chieftain nodded, conceding Deadlock’s point.

“You go then with them when they leave. With your mate.” – he concluded – “Not agreeing anything just yet but get to know what they want from us.”

“Gathering more information is paramount.” – Soundwave warned him – “Reliable information, not just what your… mate wants you to see.”

Deadlock nodded, swallowing down the last bite of his portion. He could do that. Megatron stood too with the silent Orion in tow and together they left the chieftain’s tent.

“We’ll go with you too.” – Megatron added suddenly, just before they separated towards their tents – “for awhile at least. Then we go to Iacon.”

Deadlock glanced at the smiling Orion and nodded. He was glad to see them happier and resolving the last of their problems. If only he could be sure of his own… the scout sighed as he neared his own tent. He spent a lonely night in it, understanding that Wing wanted to see and talk with his kin, but less and less sure what it meant for him.


	16. Past

The next orn brought no calmness for the nomad camp either. The early cycle hunting party went out as was normal, the tents were tended and food prepared in them as usual – but every nomad with no exception talked about the city mechs in the camp and their words that Megatron straight up reinforced. Lots and lots of mechs suddenly wanted to speak to Orion, some with Deadlock and a few of them even approached the city mechs too. Dai Atlas was perfectly willing to talk, with Axe chiming in often and Wing clarifying meanings and details to and forth. Many nomads were interested in the life of the city, the ways of warriors not in a tribe and not having to survive the desert daily. It continued the next orn too, but with more of the elders, even Soundwave talking with Dai Atlas and touching on possible future involvements as well.

The third orn brought another evening gathering, but a much less formal one than their first in the camp. Around a blazing fire they sat, ate, drank and mingled with the tribe. Dai Atlas braved the mechanimal meat once more, but his companions, seeing that it wasn’t required this time, declined and stuck to their own rations. The high grade served was crude but so strong, it even surprised Dai Atlas, who spluttered into his first cube, to the unending mirth of the nomads around him. Wing, who warned him beforehand, just smirked and diluted his own cube with some low grade. Getting roaring drunk was enough once in his functioning, the jet decided. 

Interestingly enough, their departure early the next light cycle drew far less attention and excitement – Galvatron was there, to gruffly see his creation off, some mechs from the tribe they considered friends said some goodbyes – but the rest of the nomads went about their duties like every orn. Once the news were spread, talked about and pondered on, the everyorn duties once again took precedence. Deadlock’s mission to go with the city-dwellers was considered to be curious, but too strange for them to contemplate much. Megatron and his mate joining them drew more interest, but it wasn’t unheard of for a nomad warrior or two to go their separate way occasionally and for awhile.

“Well, at least I’m not the only grounder this time.”

The memory of his last trek back to the camp was still fresh in Deadlock’s processor – injured and alone with three pretty inimical and stranger fliers who insisted carrying him to expedite the move, it was pretty uncomfortable. Orion laughed as he was used to his mate fly ahead and back many times while he drove; and Wing occasionally landed to join them for awhile, but as a rule, Deadlock and Orion was trying to push their engines and sometimes their legs to keep up with the fliers all orn long, to be absolutely exhausted by the time the fliers made camp and they managed to reach it. Though the scout admitted that it was nice to have a ready tent by the end of the orn to sprawl in…

“Deadlock… can you tell me something?”

“Sure… what?” - they were lazing in the tent, Deadlock secretly happy that a freak little sandstorm has cut their ornly trek short in mid-afternoon. It gave him a bit of time to stretch his axles and relax his engine. Moreover, Wing has decided to join him in his tent instead of talking, reconnecting with his kin in their shelter, like most night cycles. It was like their first time together, like everything that happened since just made no difference. Deadlock felt a servo on his spaulder, circling something, like Wing wanted to find a ticklish spot…

“What is it here?”

Deadlock tried to turn his helm enough, but he couldn’t see the spot Wing was touching. Though he liked the touch and said so.

“Dunno but you can keep on touching. Can’t see. What’s that?”

“Some… glyphs. I wondered what they mean.”

The Decepticon wracked his memory banks, but he couldn’t remember any glyphs on his frame that could be called that and he told Wing so. He had the usual tribal scar-tattoos, but Wing knew about those already, they had spent cycles discussing them their first time together. They represented the stages of his life in the tribe, each a particular accomplishment and done with the hieroglyphs of the tribe that were short of being a real writing.

“It’s… just interesting. Look.”

Wing drew two curly glyphs into the desert sand and Deadlock tried to remember the knowledge of writing taught to him. The shapes were a bit familiar, but he couldn’t identify them offservo.

“Is it… Iaconian?”

“No, I don’t think so. Iacon glyphs are like this.”

Wing scratched a few longer, more pointed and slender shapes besides the two.

“These are the way Iaconians write. These on you… they remind me of our writing, but… still different. Very small, though.”

Wing smoothed the sand over the last glyphs and drew a dew more under the first set. The similarity was not perfect but noticeable, especially the curly loops and the rounded tops.

“See? This is my designation. Wing. This is how we write.”

“I remember. And these…?” – they were still just familiar, but their meaning not clear.

“Well… if I squint and contort this one like… this…” – Wing drew the first set of glyphs a bit differently, one curly end a little shorter, one loop rounder, the whole leaning to the right… - “This way the first might mean fire or flame, and the other nova.”

Deadlock stared at the glyphs on the ground perplexed, even Wing’s feather-light touch forgotten momentarily.

“And these were on me…? Why would I have your glyphs on me? Did some of you paint it while I was in the city?”

Wing lifted his brows and hummed, his digits still idly tracing the tiny glyphs that were nearly hidden between a much larger tattoo and the armour’s folding part. They were certainly not visible normally, only from up close.

“I don’t think so… for one thing why would anymech do that as the meaning is strange… and for another, we can all write our glyphs perfectly. These… these look like somemech copied them from somewhere without much skill in writing.”

“Barely anymech in the tribe can write still….” – Deadlock shrugged. Despite of Orion’s best efforts few of the adult warriors learned writing, most was satisfied with being able to read a little. Only the younglings and mechlings learned more from him – ‘…but why should somemech draw glyphs on me for that matter?”

“As you grew, your armour changed, your own tattoos were copied into the new parts and plates, right?”

Deadlock nodded as he wriggled closer to Wing. He wanted more of a touch really, much as the topic was interesting too. It was obvious that if a mech acquired a tattoo he wouldn’t loose it just for a change of armour. Younglings had some tattoos too that they carried on to their adult armour. 

“So they might be very old and the shape distorted as they were copied a few times.” – Wing explained with a serious expression – “They might be older than the rest, from the time you were very young.”

Deadlock’s optics narrowed as he contemplated Wing’s words. It was certainly possible, since he himself never saw the glyphs, but what did it mean? Why was Wing so set on discovering their origin?

“Still. Why Chrystal City glyphs? I’ve never seen it before I met you.”

Wing looked unusually serious as he answered and his servo stilled on white plating, the point of contact warm but feeling somewhat cautious too.

“But your creators might.”

Deadlock jerked upright in shock, shaking off the servo from his shoulder. His optics flashed with surprise, but also a little anger.

“What do you know of my creators!?!”

“Nothing! I swear, I was just… thinking? Guessing. Truly! I know nothing… but these could be designations. Your creators’. You told me that the tribe found you in the desert.”

“Why would they be of… your city?”

“The glyphs…”

Deadlock’s servos tightened into fists and as he hissed his words the fangs he usually kept hidden flashed out.

“They can be anything!”

“But…”

“AND WHY WOULD KNIGHTS ABANDON ME IN THE DESERT TO DIE?”

The roar frightened Wing, because it was as much rightful anger as it was hurt and pain. And he didn’t have any answers, he regretted bringing the whole thing up in such a way as to cause Deadlock such pain… and in light of that question he too started to doubt his own theory. It sounded really unlikely for a Knight, for any Knights to abandon a sparkling for any reason. Even though not many choose to have one in the first place… but the few sparklings they had were all cherished. Wing couldn’t really imagine any reason that would make him cast out a sparkling to face sure deactivation. Maybe he was wrong with this theory, well, this wild guess really. In retrospect, it did sound awful. Wing wrung his servos together nervously.

“I… I’m sorry…? I guess I was… wrong to suppose such things…”

Deadlock was tense like a string and venting heavily and there was suddenly distance between them, a space that bothered Wing more than the nomad’s anger. It wasn’t so much physical, but it was there in a way there never had been, not since the very beginning of their… relationship. Wing suddenly realized just how comfortable he has always been with Deadlock – even when the nomad was a captured, angry and frustrated prisoner, even when he was bound in the tent, dizzily awakening from a drugged sleep. How much he grew to like, to _expect_ the nomad to be there, around him always, doing his work, hunting, watching or… more. That space now, that distance between them, Deadlock’s anger and pain – it hurt. It hurt all the more, because he caused it. He reached out again, cautiously.

“Deadlock…?”

“I don’t care what they are!” – Deadlock shook off Wing’s servo from his shoulder, intentionally turning away so the offending glyphs wouldn’t be visible for the Knight – “I don’t want to hear about this any more!”

“Okay… all right…”

The rest of the night was spent in uneasy silence, two warm frames huddling close under the blankets to hide from cold, but might as well be hundreds of light-years away. 

-o-o-o-

Axe wasn’t blind. Nor was Dai Atlas, for that matter but his observations tended to be less personal and more strategical in nature. Skyhigh still tried to ignore the nomads as much as close proximity allowed it while Megatron and Orion were simply busy with preparations for the orn’s trek. Therefore, it was Axe in the next morning who noticed the strange behavior of Deadlock and Wing as they took apart their tent – and wasn’t that fun when Skyhigh learned that it was most emphatically _‘theirs’_ and nomech not invited could enter, not even Wing’s creator? - seemingly working together as a team, but with a sudden and unexpected coldness between them. But he only brought it up only when they were in the air. Megatron, as usual kept his distance from them, flying a little farther away.

“Wing? What happened? Is there a problem?”

Even the young jet’s usually exuberant style flying was more subdued than usual, but he answered to the prying question.

“I… I’m not even sure where to begin.” – Wing wobbled a bit in the air.

“Did that… barbarian harmed you???” – Skyhigh’s voice was worried but aggressive too. He never stopped hating Deadlock, even though lately he behaved more calmly about it. On the surface.

“No! No, it’s… I think I hurt him.” 

“How?” – Dai Atlas’s tone was doubtful.

Wing told them about Deadlock being an orphan and the tribe finding him in the desert and how it came up last night as they talked and the misunderstanding. The other Knights listened to him as he talked up till the point when he mentioned the Chrystal City glyphs…

“Did you say Flash?” – Skyhigh’s sharp tone held incredulity and he too dropped a few meters in the air with shock, pushing his engines to regain altitude.

“Flash and nova, yes. Those were the glyphs on him.” – Wing sent the picture of the glyphs to all of them.

“I know that designation too…” – Dai Atlas murmured thoughtful – “but go on, Skyhigh.”

“Flash… he was a friend of mine! A Knight!”

Wing gasped. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad about the confirmation of his guess. He was reluctant to ask what happened that resulted Deadlock, a mere sparkling being left alone in the harsh desert – he dreaded the answer that was sure to be some kind of a tragedy…

“What… what happened to him?”

“He was way before your time. A young mech, barely becoming a Knight when it happened…”

“What happened?”

“There was this small tribe wandering nearby. They didn’t attack us, but stayed on the plateau for awhile, maybe foraging? Some of the Knights were interested and watched them – staying hidden of course, exiting the city through the tunnels. Flash was one of them.”

“He was really intrigued about the nomads’ life.” – Skyhigh added with a disapproving tone – “He was regaling me with tales about it for orns.”

“One orn he didn’t come back. By the time we started to look for him the tribe was gone as well.”

“He wasn’t kidnapped either. All his stuff was gone and he told Skyhigh about this nomad, this Nova. The other glyph you saw.”

“I told him it was stupid! That it was just lust, and he’d regret it later!” – Skyhigh was pretty agitated again and his tone told clearly that he had not had any better opinion about nomads back then than since. – “I expected him to come back soon, a vorn at most. Nomads are crude and stupid barbarians! It couldn’t have been love!”

Wing scowled inwardly and his wings twitched in a faintly rude way. Much as he loved his creator, the elder's prejudice about nomads was abysmal. 

“Skyhigh, it’s not your place to tell what is love and what isn’t.” – Dai Atlas’s deep voice broke no argument – “Did he mention any sparkling to you?”

“No, none then.” – gold-striped wings waggled in an apologetic way, but Skyhigh continued like he has just remembered something – “But he had always wanted one and said that if he ever had a kid it would be named Drift, after his own grand-creator!”

“We never talked about this later.” – Dai Atlas added – “The Rust outbreak in 2367 was reason enough to forget about such a minor event.”

“They... those two must have been Deadlock’s creators…” Wing still felt strange about it – “But how did he end up alone?”

“Well. We have somemech here who might know more about it…” – Axe waggled his wings towards the dark grey form of Megatron, flying just a little distance from them – “Even if it was a different tribe, he knows the nomad ways better than we can guess.”

Dai Atlas nodded and sent a polite ping to the nomad flier to join their discussion. 

“We’d like to know what would happen if a nomad and a city dweller decide to live together – minus the kidnapping part. Would the tribe accept them?”

“Of course.” – Megatron slowly swung closer to their group, his tone betraying faint curiosity – “Even city-dwellers can learn the ways of the desert.”

“So they wouldn’t be… ummm, banished?”

This time Megatron’s tone betrayed more than just passing interest. It was disapproval.

“Not in our tribe, no. Why? We accept the mates, you know that. By banishing them the tribe would lose a warrior and future sparklings. Banishment is for serious offences.”

“We were wondering how Deadlock was orphaned. We just found out that he is probably half from our city, half from a tribe – but we don’t know his creators’ fate.”

“Which tribe? Do you know its name?”

“Skyhigh? Did Flash ever mention this?”

The flier was silent, thinking for breems. Wing looked down where the twin plumes of dust marked their grounder companions, the larger and more colourful dot Orion, the smaller, whitish speedster car Deadlock. He still wasn’t sure how would Deadlock feel if he learned all this – and it felt vaguely impolite to speak so much about him behind his back, especially about his own past that he didn’t know.

“Trux? Tranx? I seem to remember something like this.”

Megatron signaled assent with his wings.

“Trax. There was one such tribe when I was young. But they are gone now. Haven’t heard of them for many vorns.”

“It was a small tribe and they seemed very… poor? Battered? Lots of injured mechs, few healthy nomads."

“Might be all gone now. Small tribes with few warriors sooner or later fall prey to larger ones.”

Wing couldn’t take the topic any more. His distress was growing all the time and he could only hope that Deadlock wouldn't be even angrier that they gossiped about him.

“Umm… we should be discussing it with… you know, where Deadlock can hear it too. It’s about him, after all.”

“Right. But you never told us why he was angry about it?”

“Ohh… that… Well, we thought that both his creators were Knights… and he didn’t take it well why he was abandoned by them.”

The answering silence told Wing that they understood the problem. They landed and waited for the cars to arrive to them and transform up. It was promising to be an uncomfortable discussion…

But Deadlock took it much better than the previous night, in fact he appeared calm and collected about it. 

“Whoever they were and whatever they did – it’s not important now. I’m a Decepticon now. My designation is Deadlock. Anything else is… the past.”

He glanced at Wing and for a klik his neutral façade broke. His voice turned unsure, almost… almost asking. He wouldn’t show weakness in front of Megatron, but Wing knew him by now enough to know that he was close to begging.

“It shouldn’t change anything between us. Right?”

Wing smiled back at him freely. He, at least could freely show what he felt – and his Sire could scowl all the way to Chrystal City and he wouldn’t care. He took the black servos and looked into the smoldering optics.

“It won’t.”

THE END! :-)


End file.
